Prisoner of the Iron Tower (48 page)

CHAPTER
35

Kiukiu wandered on over the dunes, lost in the Realm of Shadows.

“I mustn’t give up,” she said to herself. “I know I can find my way back to the way I came in.” A whirlwind came twisting across the arid plain, a dark spiral of swirling shadows. She raised a hand to her eyes, trying to keep out the dust and grit.

To her horror she saw agonized, distorted faces in the spiral, heard distant cries, high and inhuman as the shriek of the merciless wind. And it was coming straight toward her.

She began to run, her feet slipping in the dry grey sands, trying to find a place to shelter. But whichever way she turned, the whirlwind seemed to follow her. And now it was gaining on her. It would sweep her up and she would never find her way back. . . .

She could hear the roar of the fast-approaching funnel; she could feel the pull that would suck her up and spit her out far away from her only way home. She threw herself to the ground, burrowing into the sand with both hands like an animal.

The whirlwind passed on across the plain, and she came up blinking from her burrow, spitting out grains of sand.

And then she saw a luminous glimmer of gold and blue through the blowing dust. Those brilliant colors, so bright in this dull place . . .

She began to stagger toward it, one hand outstretched. The dust clouds parted a moment and she saw the Drakhaoul in all its shimmering daemon-splendor—and borne in its powerful arms was Lord Gavril.

“Gavril!” she screamed, trying to make herself heard above the shriek of the wind. “Gavril, I’m here! Can’t you hear me? It’s Kiukiu!”

He lifted his head, almost as if he had heard her. But the howl of the winds was so loud that her voice was drowned. And as she stumbled on toward them, she saw the Drakhaoul winging away into the distance.

“No!” she cried. “Don’t leave me!” Another whirlwind was spinning fast toward her. Why couldn’t they see her?
“Gavril!”
She tripped in the sand and fell. The deafening drone of the whirlwind bore down on her. This time there was no escape. She was sucked into the spiral and borne fast and far away over the bleak plain.

“Gavril, I’m here! Can’t you hear me? It’s Kiukiu! Don’t leave me. . . .”

“Kiukiu?” He can hear her distantly calling to him through a roar of wind and dust. “Where are you?”

“Wake up, Gavril Nagarian.”
The repeated command inside his skull brought Gavril back to his senses. He was lying on his back on the volcanic sand of Ty Nagar, washed up by the receding tide.
“Wake up!”

He spat out a mouthful of seawater and tried to roll over. Pain shot down his shoulder and arm, ending in an agony of fire. He began to realize he had been badly injured in the battle with Eugene.
“But still alive,”
said Khezef wryly.

“Are you sure?” he murmured in a charred voice.

“Belberith has gone.”

“And with him, Eugene.” Gavril wanted nothing but to crawl back into the sea and lose himself in its cold depths. “I failed. I failed to stop him.”

“This time, maybe. But your world is changing. It’s started. Already.”

Overhead the sky had gone dark, as if a storm was on its way. A cold, dry wind tossed the branches this way and that. He had heard a wind like that when he was drowning . . . and the Drakhaoul had brought him back to this world. That was when he heard her calling to him.

“Kiukiu,” he said. The Magus had been here with Eugene; Gavril had glimpsed him far below, watching their duel. Where was he now, damn him? Had he gone too, well-satisfied with the evil deed he had helped his master commit? “We must go back to find her. Must go to Swanholm. Before Linnaius gets back.”

The sky grew darker.

“Is it night?” Gavril slowly dragged himself up the shore.

“Not yet.”

“Then what? . . .” He raised his head and found he was staring through the blasted trees directly at the Serpent Gate. The darkness was seeping from the Gate itself, from Nagar’s gaping jaws. The red eye no longer shone like a beacon. But on either side of the arch he became aware of a ripple of movement. Grey stone had melted to translucent color. Daemon-eyes glimmered in the darkness: scarlet, gold, and violet. Each distorted form was slowly uncurling from its rigid position beneath Nagar’s outswept wings.

“Khezef, what’s happening?”

“Eugene opened the Serpent Gate. He set them free.”

Gavril heard the words but did not fully understand.

“But—you told me the Gate was the way home. You told me, you told my grandfather:
‘wFind the Eye, open the Gate and then, I promise you, you will be free.’
“ Had Khezef been deceiving him?

“The Gate leads back to the Realm of Shadows, our eternal prison.”

“So it was never your way home?” All the time Gavril was speaking, he was watching the Drakhaouls unfurl transparent wings, stretch slender arms, taloned hands. Colors swirled through their limbs like oil spilled in water. They were possessed of a deadly beauty; he could sense the raw power that emanated from them.

Suddenly all three rose from the stone arch and swept toward Gavril, enveloping him in a swirling cloud, fiery colors and emotions mingled, so brilliant and intense that he nearly fainted.

“My brothers,”
he heard Khezef cry.
“Araziel. Nilaihah. Adramelech.”

“Brothers?” Gavril echoed. The daemons circled his head once more and then swept away across the sea like a whirlwind.

“We were banished from our true home long, long ago. I do not know if we can ever find our way back.”

“But—but you told me you cannot survive for long in our world on your own.”

“It is true. Now they must find human hosts.”

“
Khezef—you lied to me.” He felt betrayed. “You told me it would be our final parting. That I would be free—and so would you.”

“Don’t you understand, Gavril Nagarian? Any kind of existence is preferable to the Realm of Shadows. We are creatures of light. The Realm of Shadows is torment, a living death to us. Now that the Gate has been breached, others will follow.”

Gavril sank down, hands clasped to his head. “What have you done, Eugene?” he murmured. “What have you unleashed on us all?”

And then, in the depths of his mind, he thought he caught a last, faint cry:
“Gavril . . . don’t leave me. . . .”

He could do nothing now to stop Khezef’s brothers. But he could use Khezef’s strength to help him find Kiukiu. Damn it all, he would
force
Khezef to help him.

“Swanholm,” he said. “We must make Swanholm.”

Celestine de Maunoir stood outside Kaspar Linnaius’s rooms, her hands raised, testing. The Magus’s wards had repelled her every time she had tried to break them before, sending unpleasant shocks through her hand and arm that lingered for hours afterward. But this time, armed with the only keepsake her father had left her, his grimoire, which he had hidden in the mattress of her little bed the night he was arrested, she had found an incantation, “To Break Down Mysterious Barricades.” She murmured the words three times, knocking on the invisible door in the initiate’s fashion.

No one had challenged her. All the servants were busy clearing up after the ball. Many of the household were wandering dazedly around as if still in a drunken stupor. But then, she was well-known here as the Empress’s intimate companion. Why should they wonder what she was doing?

Although she saw nothing alter, she felt the air ripple as though an invisible curtain had been drawn back. And when she raised her gloved hand to open the door, she met no resistance. The gloves were another precaution; Linnaius was almost certain to have left some trace of alchymical poison on the handles to snare the unwary.

The door swung inward. She went in, muttering the incantation again, just for good measure. And then she let out a cry of surprise.

“Well?” said Jagu, who had been waiting at the foot of the stairs.

“Come and see.”

A young woman lay on the bed, still as death, her skin pale, her eyes open and staring, as if at some horror only she could see.

“Is she dead?” Jagu asked. “If so, we have more than enough evidence against him.”

Celestine knelt and held a glass to her lips. “Look,” she said, showing him the blurring made by the slightest trace of breath. “She’s alive.” She touched the young woman’s shoulder. She shook her. “Wake up!” she cried. The young woman made no response at all.

“Alive, yet not alive,” said Jagu. “He’s stolen her soul.”

“What has he been using her for, I wonder?” Celestine said with a shudder of disgust.

“Is this hers, do you think?” Jagu pointed to a painted wooden zither that lay on the table. He plucked a few notes, which resounded with a strange metallic timbre. “It doesn’t look like the kind of instrument a Magus would play. It’s too crude, too unrefined. And it needs tuning,” he added dryly.

Celestine rose. “We have much to do. He could return at any minute. Is the carriage ready?”

“Are we just going to leave her here like this?”

“We must travel fast,” said Celestine, “and she would only prove a burden. She must have family close by; let them care for her.”

The Drakhaon Eugene flew over the red deserts of Djihan-Djihar, making for the coast. Ahead lay Smarna and the cooler shores of his empire. His veins pulsed with daemonic power. His whole body was filled with energy and light. He felt invincible.

He had drawn the Smarnan rebels’ teeth. Or, more precisely, he had beaten Gavril Nagarian into submission. Now Smarna had no daemonic powers to defend it, and the rebels would be hunted down one by one and tried for their crimes. Pavel Velemir must have compiled a sizeable dossier on the ringleaders by now.

He still relished the moment he had swooped down on Gavril Nagarian and seared him with Belberith’s virulent green fire, sending him crashing into the sea. The sky duel was the most exhilarating battle he had ever fought.

That just left the unannounced presence of the Francian fleet off Smarna. And what better way to determine their purpose than from the air? If there were just a few ships escorting their king on his pilgrimage to the ancient holy sites and temples, then New Rossiya had nothing to fear. But if the ships numbered more than a dozen . . .

The waters beneath him were a softer green now that he had left Djihan-Djihar far behind, no longer the intense, hot blue of the distant Azure Ocean. And the rocky outline of the distant shore, with little bays and inlets, must be Smarna.

“But what are all those ships?”

White sails billowed from a forest of masts. And on each mast flew the flag of Francia, a golden salamander on a white background.

“Enguerrand!” he hissed.

He circled high overhead, counting the ships in the bay beneath. There were two dozen men-o’-war, bristling with cannons and at least another dozen frigates. At the center of the formation was the royal flagship, flying the black and gold pennant of the Commanderie. They outnumbered his Southern Fleet by four to one.

“And if Gavril Nagarian hadn’t sunk half my warships in this very bay . . .” He began to descend, seeing the shadow of his great wings darkening the water. Fire filled his mind, fire and destruction. He could take out the royal flagship and set the sails alight on the men-o’-war.

“Drakhaoul,” he cried aloud, concentrating his sights on Enguerrand’s ship.

“No.”
Belberith’s voice whispered.
“You do not have enough strength for another attack.”

“Not enough strength?” Eugene had thought the Drakhaouls invincible, their power inexhaustible.

“You have barely enough strength to reach your home without replenishing yourself.”
Was that a tinge of mockery in the daemon’s words?
“You must conserve what little energy we have left between us. If you attack these ships, you will fall into the sea and drown.”

Even as Belberith spoke, Eugene realized he was right; his wings were beating more slowly and his sight was less clear, as though a sea mist had hazed his vision. And now he could feel his own heart laboring in his breast to keep himself aloft.

And for the first time since he fused with the Drakhaoul Belberith, he remembered Gavril Nagarian’s warning, spoken back in the prison cell in Mirom.

“It winds itself into your will, your consciousness, until you no longer know who is in control.”

Who is in control now? Is it me—or Belberith?

CHAPTER
36

The sky craft flew on above the clouds. The Magus lay slumped inside, one hand feebly guiding the rudder. He felt ill and old. The journey to Ty Nagar had left him depleted of strength. He desperately needed to take some of his precious elixir of youth . . . but the little phial was in his laboratory at Swanholm and he was still too far from Tielen.

He must have breathed in some of the deadly drifting smoke from the Drakhaouls’ battle. Why else would he feel so weak?

At last he landed in a grove of parkland trees at Swanholm and began to make his way toward the palace, stopping frequently to rest and catch his breath, leaning against a tree or slumping down on one of the benches.

He was within sight of the palace when he was forced to sit down again on a garden seat of wrought ironwork at the edge of the formal gardens. Closing his eyes, he took in a few shallow breaths, trying to calm his juddering heart. The sun seemed so bright, and the riotous colors of the flowers in the beds and tubs so intense they made his eyes ache.

“You don’t look very well. Can I help you?”

Linnaius slowly raised his head, squinting in the bright sunlight. A young man, pale-faced and garbed in black, was bending over him. Linnaius didn’t recognize him, though from his sober attire he guessed he was either a lawyer or a cleric.

“I’m just a little . . . fatigued.” He forced himself to his feet, clinging to the side of the seat.

“Here, let me take your arm.” The young man steadied him. “Are you going into the palace?”

Frustrated by his own weakness, Linnaius nodded his agreement. He was ashamed to have to lean on the young man’s arm, and yet he knew he would never make his rooms without assistance. They set off at a slow pace toward the stables, and it was only as they passed under the archway that Linnaius began to wonder why they were going this way.

“Just a little farther now,” said the young man easily.

A black coach stood in the stable courtyard, horses in harness, ready to leave. The coach door opened and a young woman descended.

“Good-day, Kaspar Linnaius,” she said. “We have been waiting for you.”

He recognized with a sinking feeling the golden hair and blue eyes of Celestine de Maunoir. At the same time, the young man’s grip on his arm tightened.

“What do you want with me?” he demanded—and heard, to his shame, a quiver of fear in his voice.

“Just to take a ride in this coach together,” she said. “It’s a lovely day for a ride, isn’t it?”

“I will not be taken anywhere against my own will—” began Linnaius.

“Please don’t make a fuss,” said the young man in tones of quiet menace, “or we will be obliged to compel you by other, less pleasant means.”

“At least let me bring a few possessions—” If only he could reach his rooms, there were powders and potions there he could use to defend himself against his abductors.

As if in reply, he felt the young man press the muzzle of a pistol against his neck. “Into the coach,” he whispered. “Now.”

Astasia and Andrei stood side by side on the quay at Haeven. The skies had turned dark and stormclouds were racing across the Straits. Astasia shivered and pulled her cloak closer about her.

“You don’t think anyone has recognized me?” she asked Andrei anxiously. She was certain that her escape would be discovered and the Imperial Household Cavalry dispatched to bring her back. Every moment that passed on Tielen soil made her more apprehensive.

“Let’s wait for them on board,” Andrei said, squeezing her hand. “I can’t think what has detained them. They said they’d be here so that we could sail on the evening tide.”

“Look!” squeaked Nadezhda, pointing out to sea. She seemed to have lost her voice. “What
is
that?”

“Oh dear God,” Astasia said faintly. “It’s coming straight for us.”

Speeding over the waves came what seemed at first a waterspout—a wild, dark spiral of cloud, wind, and water. Yet as Astasia stared, she thought she detected a shimmer of blue within the fast-moving cloud. Were those eyes? And were those great wings of shadow, powerfully beating?

“It’s a Drakhaoul,” she said in a hoarse whisper. But surely it was not Gavril Nagarian she sensed bearing down on them; how could it be? Hadn’t he been locked away for life in the prison at Arnskammar?

And just as she was certain it was making straight for her, it veered away from the port and headed inland, following the path of the river.

She glanced at Andrei and saw that he had been utterly transfixed by the sight, one hand clutched to his head. His eyes rolled, unfocused.

“Andrei? Andrei, what is it?” She gripped hold of his arm, afraid he was going to fall into a fit. “Nadezhda, do we have any brandy?”

Nadezhda shook her head, speechless.

Andrei slowly began to form words. But they seemed like gibberish, or some foreign tongue she had never encountered before. And each word made her skin crawl, though she had no idea why.

“Khezef,” he said. “Belberith. Araziel. Nilaihah.
Adramelech!
” Then he turned to her and said in urgent tones, “They are coming. Get on board the ship, Tasia, quick.”

“I won’t go without you,” she said, still holding on to him, not knowing who “they” were, only that she had never seen him so possessed before.

With a cry, he pulled free of her grip and went stumbling off along the quay toward the long jetty that stretched out into the open sea.

Gavril flew onward until he saw the great park and the pale stone buildings of Swanholm. The first time he had flown here to rescue Elysia there had been no time to hide his Drakhaoul form. But today he could not risk causing so great a disturbance. He dipped down into a grove of trees and began to walk through the grounds toward the palace. It looked as if there had been a celebration here, for men were at work in the park dismantling marquees and servants were sweeping and cleaning. With any luck, no one would even stop to ask who he was; he could always pretend he was helping load one of the great carts that had come rolling up to be piled with tent posts and bales of canvas.

“Drakhaoul.”

His heart racing, he turned and saw a little girl staring up at him with eyes as blue as the sea that washed Ty Nagar’s shores.

“H-how do you know?” he stammered.

“I am the Drakhaoul’s child,” she said. “I sensed you were coming.”

“Then help me, Drakhaoul’s child.” He was desperate now; he didn’t know who she was, but he sensed she would not refuse. “I’m looking for the Magus.”

“Follow me.” It was a command. She started out, making for an inner courtyard and only now did he see from her limp that she was badly crippled.

She pointed to an archway. “Up there. But he’s gone. You won’t find him.”

“Princess Karila, where are you? Are you outside without your cloak?”

“I’m here, Marta!” she called.

“Princess Karila?” Gavril echoed. Eugene’s daughter? And yet she had called herself Drakhaoul’s child.

“Come back for me,” she said, reaching up to touch his hand, yet he knew it was not to him that she spoke.

“When the time is right, then I will come for you,”
he heard Khezef answer.

A woman in a dark blue dress appeared in the courtyard; Gavril shrank back into the archway as she led the princess away, scolding her for forgetting her cloak.

He had wasted enough time. He went up the stairs and saw the door to the Magus’s rooms was ajar. Someone had been here before him.

Pushing open the door, he checked inside. The place had been ransacked; books lay everywhere. He went in, treading on broken-backed spines, torn pages, broken glass.

And then he saw the inner door half-open. A woman was lying on the bed, her golden hair glinting in the sunlight that filtered in through the window.

“Kiukiu?” he said, astonished.

She lay as though dead, her eyes staring into the distance with an expression of horror and disbelief. Beside her lay her gusly.

He put out a shaking hand to touch her face and found it was still warm. He checked for a pulse in her limp wrist and felt the faintest beat beneath the skin.

“So they made you work for them,” he murmured, “and now you’re lost in the Ways Beyond . . . and I have no idea how to get you back.” He touched the soft tendrils of her hair and saw that there were many threads of white among the gold. She was aging. If her spirit did not return to her body soon . . .

He lifted her, cradling her head and shoulders against him, noticing how heavy they felt.

“Come back, Kiukiu,” he murmured, kissing her. “Come back to me.”

When she still did not stir at the sound of his voice or the touch of his lips, he carried her out of the Magus’s rooms and on, up the stairs, making for the door to the roof.

It would be a long flight back to Azhkendir, and a hard one, with her in his arms. But there was only one person he knew who had the skills and the experience to bring her back.

Malusha dozed fitfully in front of the embers of the fire.

“Grandma . . . Grandma, help me. . . .” She hears Kiukiu calling to her from very far away, her voice faint and desperate.

“Kiukiu? Where are you, child?” she calls back. “Just give me a sign, a hint, and I’ll find you!”

Dust blows in her face, dry and stinging. She raises her hands to cover her eyes. All she can see is an endless, dreary landscape, stretching on to forever—a place of lost hope, lost dreams, of despair.

“No, not here! Anywhere but here—”

An insistent tapping at the window woke her.

“Kiukiu?” she cried out. “Is that you?”

There was no reply. She wrapped her shawl around her and went to open the shutters, peering into the night.

Lady Iceflower was hunched on the sill, her snowy feathers gleaming in the darkness.

“My lady, why can’t you use the hole in the roof like the others?”

The owl sidled along the sill and gave her a little nip.

“So there’s still no sign of my girl?”

The owl hopped inside and allowed Malusha to stroke her sleek head feathers. Malusha sighed and pulled the shutters to.

“She’s been gone too long with that cursed wind-mage. I warned her, Iceflower, but would she listen to me? No, her head’s too full of that Nagarian boy, and no good will come of it.” Malusha shuffled over to the dying fire and began to rake it, tossing on handfuls of pine needles to revive the flames.

“Was the hunting good, my lady?”

Lady Iceflower gave a few convulsive coughs and spat out a bony pellet onto the cottage floor. Malusha inspected it. “Mice, again? Well, it keeps them out of my stores. . . .” She put water to heat and settled back in her chair. “I can’t sleep, my lady, for worrying about her.” The owl jumped up and perched beside her companionably.

And then Malusha sat up, listening intently. It felt as if a shadow had passed over the cottage, jarring her nerves, stirring up dark memories. Iceflower gave a cry of alarm and flapped her white wings.

“d’you feel that, my lady? That’s a Drakhaoul. And winging low overhead.”

A man’s voice cried outside, “Malusha! Let us in, for God’s sake!”

Malusha picked up a walking stick from beside the fire and went to open the door. In the gloom of a starless night, she saw a glimmer of bright eyes, daemon-blue.

“You keep your distance, Gavril Nagarian.”

“I’ve brought Kiukiu,” he gasped. “But she sorely needs your help.”

“Kiukiu?” Malusha hastily muttered the words to break the protection spell around the cottage and Gavril staggered inside, carrying her granddaughter.

“Put her down on the settle,” Malusha commanded, “and stand back.”

He collapsed to his hands and knees, heaving in great breaths of air, and she realized he was little threat to her right now.

“And what have they done to you, my poor girl?” she crooned, kneeling beside Kiukiu and running her fingertips down her cheek. “Look at these grey hairs. You’re aging; your life force is slipping away. Where are you? And why can’t you get back?”

“She was in the Magus’s rooms,” said Gavril Nagarian, still wheezing. He looked as if he’d been in a fight. “Her gusly was there, but it was too heavy to bring.”

He’d risked much to bring Kiukiu home, she allowed grudgingly. He deserved a cup of her medicinal herbal tea, if nothing more. The water was boiling; Malusha put a generous pinch of her special tea in a bowl and some healing herbs in another. “I’m going to look for her.” She poured on hot water, inhaling the fragrant narcotic fumes as the dream-herbs began to infuse. “You drink this when it’s cooled a little,” she said to Gavril. “It’ll ease your wounds and your weariness.”

He took the bowl from her, nodding his thanks.

“No good ever comes of troubling the dead for their secrets; what’s buried should stay buried. If we hadn’t agreed to disturb Serzhei—” She stopped, hearing again Kiukiu’s voice calling to her from far, far away. She saw the dust storms blowing across the bleak plain. “That’s it! Eugene wasn’t satisfied with what he learned and he wanted more. They always want more. And if she’s trapped in the Realm of Shadows . . .”