Prisoner of the Iron Tower (46 page)

The dancers were receding, the music growing fainter and fainter, the firelit gardens were dissolving into dark mists . . .

CHAPTER
33

Red light, crimson as a winter sunset, bathed Gavril’s fevered dreams.

“Nagar’s Eye,”
the Drakhaoul’s voice whispered.
“I can sense it.”

Gavril opened his eyes. He had fallen asleep in the ruined watchtower above the kastel. The stars were bright in the black sky overhead. But his vision was still stained with the bloodred light that had tinged his dreams.

“Someone seeks to open the Serpent Gate!”
There was a new urgency in the Drakhaoul’s voice.

“What are you saying?” Gavril was not yet fully awake.

“We must go now.”

“Now? But how can I leave Azhkendir now?”

“
Your
druzhina
are out of danger
.”

“And how can you be so sure that it’s Nagar’s Eye you can sense? It could be a trap.”

“It could be. But can you deny me this one chance of freedom? The first since the Gate was sealed and the Eye stolen?”

Gavril heard the desperate yearning in the daemon’s voice. It had rescued him from a living death in Arnskammar and healed him. How could he deny Khezef his one chance of release?

The coach jogged on, carrying Andrei toward the port at Haeven and passage to a new life in Francia. Celestine, her head resting on a silken cushion, was still in a doze.

Although he had been up all night, Andrei could not sleep. He could think only of leaving Astasia behind. Marriage to Eugene had altered her more than he had imagined; in spite of her pleasure at seeing him, she had seemed dispirited and unhappy. He was half of a mind to order the coach to turn around and go back for her.

It was nearly dawn. Suddenly the grey skies turned red as a fiery light streaked across the horizon.

“What’s that? A comet?” cried Andrei, leaning out of the coach window.

“That’s no comet.” Celestine was awake now, gazing intently at the skies. “That’s not a natural phenomenon, Andrei. That light could augur the end of the world.”

He turned to her, thinking she was jesting, but saw from her expression that she was in deadly earnest.

Astasia woke to the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. The smell, usually one of the small pleasures that brightened her mornings, made her feel horribly queasy.

“Good morning!” said Nadezhda chirpily, bringing a cup to her bedside table.

“Take it away!” snapped Astasia, burying her face in the pillows.

“A little too much fruit punch at the ball?” said Nadezhda, doing as she was bidden. “Or is there some other reason, dear altessa?”

Astasia stayed where she was, face hidden in the soft silk pillows.

“All right, then, keep it a secret; although I’ve already a fair idea when we can expect the happy event. It would be about nine months from last—”

“Ssh, Nadezhda!” Astasia sat up and threw a pillow at her. “Nobody knows.”

“I guessed as much.” Nadezhda neatly caught the pillow. “I just wasn’t sure
you
knew. And once the Emperor hears of the happy event, the bells will be ringing in all the steeples between here and Mirom.”

“Oh, Nadezhda.” All the unhappiness Astasia had been holding in suddenly threatened to burst out. She put one hand to her mouth, trying not to sob. “This isn’t how I’d imagined it would be. Not at all. I feel so—
lonely
here. If it weren’t for you and Celestine—”

“Don’t take on so,” Nadezhda said.

“I even miss Eupraxia. Dear, fussy old Eupraxia.” At the thought of her governess, Astasia felt the tears brim over. “I’m not ready to have a baby, Nadezhda, I’m too young.”

“It’s a little late to be crying over it now.” Nadezhda handed her a lacy handkerchief. “There’s nothing you can do.” Mischievously, she held the pillow beneath her breasts, arching her back, mimicking a pregnant belly.

“Oh!” Astasia cried, outraged. “I should have you beaten for insolence!”

“So when were you thinking of telling his imperial highness? Don’t you think he deserves to be told?”

“Where is his imperial highness? I don’t see him here. He’s gone hunting.” Astasia had not forgotten her humiliation at the ball last night. “He does as he pleases.” Eugene had paid far more attention to Countess Lovisa than to her. She was still smarting. “For all I know, he’s . . .” She could not bring herself to say it aloud.
With his mistress Lovisa.
Her eyes filled with tears again. “He doesn’t talk to me, Nadezhda.”

“He’s the Emperor,” said Nadezhda with a shrug.

“How can I stay here?” Astasia whispered. “Among strangers? I want to go home to Mirom.”

Nadezhda came and sat beside her on the bed. She put her arms around her and gave her a hug. It was an utterly improper thing for a servant to do, but Astasia did not care. She clung to Nadezhda.

“I feel so alone,” she whispered.

The sky craft sped through the dawn, borne on a soft southern wind that Linnaius had conjured. Following the slender beaconlight, the Magus steered the craft far away from the cooler shores of Tielen toward the burning sands of Djihan-Djihar.

A shiver of anger went through Eugene as he remembered Astasia’s secret assignation at the ball. Was she playing him for a fool? It was behavior that seemed at odds with her usual conduct. He had thought her charming and naÏve, a little unsophisticated, maybe, but all the more endearing for that. But all these qualities had attracted many admirers—and an unscrupulous suitor could so easily play on her naÏvety.

Unless Lovisa was mistaken. Unless she had another motive in smirching Astasia’s reputation—

No. He had chosen Lovisa as Astasia’s secret bodyguard because she was unassailable in matters of virtue and loyalty. Perhaps he should have let Astasia in on the secret? And yet he had judged she would be safer not knowing who was watching out for her. Had his judgment been flawed, not trusting Astasia with the knowledge? Perhaps he had treated her too much as a child—and in doing so, had driven her to seek out more sympathetic company. And that thought alone made his heart ache with bitter regret. For it was too late now to change matters; what was done, was done.

He sat back, holding the velvet pouch that contained the Tears of Artamon. Little tingles of energy pulsed through his fingers from time to time, as though the power in the rubies could not be contained within either the golden casing or the velvet pile. And the farther south they flew, the stronger the pulsing became.

“We must be on the right course,” he shouted to Linnaius above the crackle of the wind in the leather sail. “The rubies are reacting like lodestones.”

Linnaius nodded. He was recording their progress on a chart, checking the faint beacon against both the fast-fading stars overhead and the rising sun.

“It’s time,” he said. “Time to bind them more securely together.”

Eugene took out a length of slender golden wire Linnaius had given him. He began to wind the wire around the rubies until they made one single stone again.

Each tremor of energy provoked a sympathetic surge of excitement in Eugene as he worked. This journey into the unknown was the most daring venture he had ever undertaken. It contradicted every rational thought. It went against every one of the enlightened principles by which he had lived his life. And he no longer cared.

The wind blew more gently now and it was a warm, moist wind, bringing faint wafts of unfamiliar smells: rich, ripe, and spicy. And with the warm wind came heat. Eugene undid his jacket buttons and reached for the water flask.

The Azure Ocean far below them had turned a deep tropical blue. Shoals of little islands appeared, their shores white with fine sand.

Linnaius began to sniff the air. “Do you smell that, highness?”

Eugene pulled a face. “That abominable stink? It smells like the pits of hell.”

“Volcanic fumes. We must be approaching the archipelago.”

Linnaius brought the craft about while Eugene scanned the horizon for any sign of volcanic activity. He spotted a faint trace of smoke, like fine ribbons of gauze darkening the brilliant blue of the sky.

“There!” Even as he pointed, he heard the rubies begin to buzz as though they were alive. “That must be Ty Nagar!” He could not conceal the throb of anticipation in his voice.

As they sped closer, he saw the jagged volcanic cone rising out of the gauzy haze.

“Any signs of human habitation?” He looked down at the ocean. There was not a single ship to be seen, unlike the busy waterways around Tielen.

“Hold tight,” Linnaius cried. “We’ve hit crosswinds.”

The craft slewed suddenly to one side, then dropped like a stone. They went hurtling down toward the ocean. Eugene’s ears ached with the change in pressure; he gripped the flimsy side of the craft with one hand, the other clutching the precious rubies tight. If he was thrown into the sea, the rubies could sink to the fathomless deep and never be gathered together again—

“For God’s sake, Linnaius!”

They careered along the tops of the waves, spattered by flecks of spray, Linnaius steering erratically as he whistled in vain for a fresh wind to carry them.

“I can’t control her, highness—”

Eugene grabbed the rudder from him and, one-handed, steadied the craft.

Ahead he could see the volcano’s dark peak looming up out of the ocean, hazed by drifts of pale smoke. The foul smell of the vapors tainted the fresh salty tang of the ocean air. He thought for a moment that he could detect the faintest orange glow of fire around the rim of the cone . . . and then the billowing vapors again fogged his vision.

“What a magnificent sight,” he murmured. “What grandeur. What fearsome destructive power.”

Now the shoreline was visible, the sands as grey as cinders, with lush, dense vegetation behind, the leaves oozing moisture.

Linnaius brought the craft bumping down across the sands until it skidded to a halt and Eugene relaxed his grip on the rudder. His hands were sweating. His cramped limbs still felt the juddering of the craft, even though they had landed.

Heat hung in the heavy air. It was as if he had stepped into the steam room at Swanholm. He shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves; the linen already felt damp.

Birds, bright-feathered and raucous, darted about the liana-festooned trees. “Now to find this Serpent Gate.” Eugene wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. It came away glossy with sweat.

He took the rubies from the velvet pouch and held them aloft. The droning pulse grew louder; he could feel the jewels vibrating faster, stronger . . . The slender column of fiery light intensified, burning so brightly that even in the light of the merciless sun, its flame could clearly be seen.

“And it points deep into the heart of the jungle.” Eugene gazed at the thick-tangled vegetation, perplexed. “It could take a couple of days to hack our way through. Damn it all, Linnaius, why didn’t we think of this?”

“I’ve come prepared,” Linnaius said, removing a phial from his robes. It contained grains that glittered a dull blue in the sunlight.

“Is that the new firedust from Azhkendir?”

“The same.” Following the beacon’s path, Linnaius began to scatter a trail of grains from the phial into the jungle.

The busy chatter of tree creatures began high overhead; Eugene spotted little monkeys with dark eyes staring at them from the overhanging branches. How Karila would love to have a pair of the pretty little creatures with their curlicue tails and white ruffs of fur!

Karila. He had set out on this journey without even bidding her farewell. If he perished here, so far from home, how would she remember her negligent father? Would she ever forgive him for abandoning her?

Why am I thinking such morbid thoughts? When I’ve opened the Serpent Gate, I’ll be invincible.

Linnaius emerged from the undergrowth.

“I advise a strategic retreat,” he said, making for the sky craft. He lit a firestick and tossed it toward the little trail of glittering grains. Eugene crouched down behind the sky craft.

There was a deafening explosion. The sky turned white and the shore beneath them trembled. They were flung forward onto ash-covered sand. Although Eugene had shut his eyes, the light scored blinding brightness through his closed lids. When he opened his eyes again, he could hardly see.

“In God’s name, Linnaius, that stuff is dangerous!” He sat up, the rubies clutched in one hand, brushing sand from his clothes. His ears still jangled with the force of the blast. “You could have blown us both to pieces. You could have destroyed the Gate—”

As the drifting grey smoke slowly cleared, Eugene saw that a path had been blasted right into the heart of the jungle. Blackened tree stumps were all that remained of a grove of trees. An eerie silence had fallen. The pretty monkeys were gone, incinerated, he guessed, along with the bright-feathered birds. But ahead he could distinguish the remains of great stone buildings, all fallen to ruin and covered with centuries’ growth of creepers and vines.

“Look.” The ruby beacon pointed to the ruins.

“These must be the temples to the Serpent God Nagar,” Linnaius said.

They crunched across the carbonized remains of trees, feeling the heat through the soles of their boots. Here and there little tongues of fire still licked at the charred branches. The choking smell of burning caught at the back of Eugene’s throat. His dazzled eyes watered, yet still he followed the bloodred beacon emanating from the stones in his hands. And then he felt the stones begin to judder, straining at the metal casing that bound them, as if they were striving to burst free.