The Arkhel Conundrum (The Tears of Artamon Book 4)

by Ash, Sarah

  “Sulien, you say?” Eugene was pondering the information. “Perhaps the boy was sickly and they sent him to take the spa waters for his health. And while he was away, Lord Volkh massacred his clan and laid waste to the Arkhel lands. What reason was there to go home after that?”

  “Indeed. And Prince Karl kept the news of Jaromir’s survival a closely-guarded secret; smuggling him out of Azhkendir alive was one of the trickiest tasks your father ever set me.” Sylvius nodded his elegantly-cropped white head.

  “So why do you think that—having lain low for twenty years—Lord Ranulph has suddenly decided to reveal his true identity?”

  “If I were to tell you that a woman calling herself Lilias Arkhel visited Sulien to take the waters this summer . . .”

  “Lilias again,” Eugene echoed under his breath. If only I had found a way to stop her damned meddling once and for all. He glanced at Sylvius, wondering if he had spoken his murderous thoughts aloud.

  Sylvius merely nodded again. “She’s artful—and resourceful. Sometimes I wonder if she could be persuaded to work for us, rather than against us—”

  Eugene raised one hand. “She is the most duplicitous woman I’ve ever had the misfortune to cross. Don’t even think about approaching her.” He would never forgive her for treating Jaromir so callously. Thank God the poor boy died believing she still loved him. “I pity Lord Ranulph if he’s allowed himself to fall prey to her notorious charms.”

  “So what would you like me to do at this stage? Continue surveillance?”

  “I don’t see what else we can do. But I want to know at the first opportunity if she commits the slightest transgression. If she’s persuaded the Arkhels to return to Azhkendir, who knows what trouble might suddenly erupt?” And just when Gavril had lost the one advantage he possessed to keep the peace in that barbarous wintry kingdom: Khezef.

  “Very well.” Sylvius removed his monocle, fastidiously draping its silver chain over the front of his stylishly tailored charcoal jacket. “Oh, and there is one other piece of information from Serindher that you should be aware of. It may be nothing to concern ourselves about.”

  Eugene raised one brow. “Serindher? It’s not to do with Prince Andrei, is it?” Astasia still missed her brother, although he knew how careful she was not to speak of her worries in his presence; Andrei had, after all, abducted their only son just days after his birth.

  “Not the prince, but his fellow in exile, a certain Count Alvborg.”

  “Oskar.” Even speaking his illegitimate brother’s name aloud left Eugene with an unpleasant taste in his mouth. “So what’s the information?”

  “Perhaps I should rephrase that; to speak more precisely, it’s the lack of information that’s somewhat disconcerting.”

  Sylvius had a way of disguising bad news that Eugene found singularly irritating. “Baron,” he said, “please be more precise.”

  “You may remember that he was working with the Francian missionaries to help the local people after the tidal wave swept through the Spice Islands. Well, the priest we asked to keep an eye on him has reported that he’s gone missing. And as it’s taking many weeks for a ship to reach Tielen from the islands—”

  “Missing?” Eugene echoed. “Fallen overboard, lost in the Serindhen jungle, or absconded and on his way back to Tielen to make life difficult for us?”

  “I’ve told all my agents to keep a watch out for him at the ports,” Sylvius said calmly. “He’s not difficult to spot, after all, with that distinctive white-blond hair.”

  “You, of all people, know how easy it is to change hair color,” Eugene said dryly. “Wigs aren’t so hard to come by. He might even have shaved it all off.”

  “Or, he’s made himself a tidy little fortune in Serindher and has decided to spend it closer to home.”

  “That man still bears us a grudge,” Eugene said, remembering the look of hatred he had seen smoldering in Oskar’s eyes when he left him behind on Ty Nagar, the Serpent Isle. “I want him arrested the moment he sets foot on Tielen soil. And Sylvius, not a word of this to the empress or Princess Karila; I don’t want to alarm them unnecessarily.”

  “We’ll find him, don’t worry, Imperial Majesty,” said Sylvius, bowing with customary elegance as he withdrew.

  “Oskar Alvborg,” Eugene muttered. Oskar’s Drakhaoul, Sahariel, had been the most rebellious, the most dangerous of the six servants of Nagazdiel. And he could not help but wonder exactly how much of that rebellious streak Alvborg had retained.

  Chapter 5

  Lilias rolled up the carriage blind so that she could get a clearer view of the Arkhels’ manor house.

  “What a quaintly old-fashioned place it is,” she said softly to Dysis as the carriage meandered down the long drive into the valley, passing sheep cropping the lush green grass of the parkland on either side. “It must have been built at least two hundred years ago.”

  To Lilias’s eyes, the timbered and plaster façade looked rather too rustic to suit her cultured tastes. A forest of tall chimneys rose above the mossy roof tiles, each one different from the next, with lozenge patterns, shields, and twisting ribbons worked in contrasting colored bricks.

  “It’s even got a moat,” she exclaimed, seeing ducks swimming in a v-shaped flotilla across the dark waters. The carriage crossed over a little bridge and came to a halt on the gravel in front of the main entrance. The postilion jumped down and opened the door to help Lilias out, Dysis following.

  A hollow baying sound sent a shiver through Lilias as the main door opened and a pair of shaggy wolfhounds, each the size of a small pony, bounded toward her enthusiastically. Lilias froze, certain she was about to be knocked over. Volkh had kept a pair too—and she had been terrified of the hairy brutes. She looked around for Dysis to shield her, but her maid had retreated inside the carriage.

  “Cuall!” called a commanding voice as Lady Tanaisie hurried out. “Rhymni! Heel!”

  The hounds hesitated and then slunk away,

  “I must apologize,” Lady Tanaisie reached Lilias and clasped her hands in her own. “They’re really very affectionate, but they don’t know their own strength. Please come in. My housekeeper will look after your maid; our servants take luncheon in the kitchen.”

  Lilias allowed herself to be led into the lofty hallway of the manor house, casting anxious glances as the wolfhounds followed—rather too closely for her liking.

  “Ranulph, my dear,” called Lady Tanaisie, firmly shooing the hounds away, “we have visitors!” She opened a door and ushered Lilias inside. “This is the young woman I told you about: Lilias, the widow of your late nephew Jaromir.”

  Lord Arkhel was standing gazing out through one of the mullioned windows over the parkland, his hands clasped behind his back. He turned, and Lilias, who had been steeling herself for this meeting, felt, in spite of all her careful preparation, her heart miss a beat as she saw his face. His features were strong-hewn, with a prominent aquiline nose—although his complexion had acquired a roughened, ruddy hue which told her that Jaromir’s uncle was fond of hunting and strong liquor. But the eyes that gazed piercingly at her were dark and clear. And, even though his hair was cropped short in the military style made fashionable by the Emperor, she could not help noticing that, although fading to silver at the temples, it still had a hint of the distinctive burnished Arkhel gold that her little Stavy had inherited from his dead father.

  “Good day to you, Mistress Arkhel,” said Lord Ranulph with easy courtesy, nodding to her.

  “My lord.” Lilias curtseyed demurely. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

  She cast a quick glance around her, noting that the furnishings of the Manor of Serrigonde, although spotlessly clean and neat, were showing distinct signs of age; the delicate fabrics were fading and worn and the pale sprigged patterns were some thirty years out of fashion. The current craze for richly colored Serindhen silks, imported at vast expense, had obviously yet to reach the country manors of Tourmalise. Although, she su
spected that the signs of genteel dilapidation were probably a direct result of Lord Ranulph’s losses at the gaming tables and Lady Tanaisie was probably desperately hoping to marry her girls off to rich suitors.

  How fortunate for the “sweet sylphs” that they have such a devoted and doting mother, Lilias found herself reflecting bitterly, having had to fend for herself from the age of fourteen when her own mother’s lifeless body had been dredged out of the chilly River Dniera.

  “I’m at your disposal today, ladies; all my estate business is done.” Lord Ranulph’s words brought her abruptly back from that unpleasant memory.

  Why was I thinking of Mama? I have to concentrate on the present.

  “Let’s take luncheon first,” said Lady Tanaisie. “It’s just simple fare: mutton pie from our own flock, fruit tarts made with apples and plums from the orchard, and goats’ cheese. All produced from the estate.”

  “It sounds delicious,” said Lilias, not needing to feign her enthusiasm; she was famished after the long drive.

  “And after lunch, we can retire to the library . . .”

  ***

  The library at Serrigonde exuded a distinctly masculine odor of old leather, dust, and . . . was that apple brandy? Lilias couldn’t help sniffing the air as Ranulph ushered her inside, and spotted the decanter and glass on the desk. One of the wolfhounds followed faithfully at his master’s heels, his claws making a sharp, tapping sound over the worn parquet floor. Ranulph offered Lilias one of two leather armchairs and sat in the other opposite her, flipping back his coat tails as he eased himself down; the wolfhound turned round a couple of times before settling at his feet, like a gray furry rug.

  The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with ancient volumes, bound in brown and blood-red leather, and whose gold-tooled titles had faded so much as to be almost illegible.

  “My father-in-law liked to think of himself as something of an inventor.” Ranulph gestured somewhat apologetically at the stacks of books. “They’re mostly scientific—or treatises on hunting and animal husbandry. Don’t have much time for reading, myself; the estate keeps me too busy.”

  “But have you kept abreast of current affairs?” Lilias had noticed a copy of the Tourmaline Times lying on the blotter on the desk. “You’re aware of recent events in Azhkendir?”

  “Even an obscure country squire like me would find it hard to ignore the extraordinary happenings of the last two years.” Did she detect an edge to his self-deprecating description of himself? She darted a glance at him and saw again the faint shadow of a frown fleetingly darken his amiable expression. So you, too, have learned to play your new role well. But now you’re growing weary of dissembling.

  “Have you ever been back?”

  “Why would I? I have a new life here, a loving wife, children to raise, an estate to manage . . . Kastel Arkhel was completely obliterated by Lord Volkh and all the surrounding lands laid to waste.”

  She waited a moment before lowering her voice to say in her most intimate tone, “Do you give me your word, my lord, that you will keep what I’m about to reveal to you as utterly confidential—and not share it yet with anyone, not even your wife?”

  He hesitated. And then he said, “I give you my word as an Arkhel.”

  “And no one can overhear us in here?”

  He patted the wolfhound’s shaggy head. “Old Cuall here would warn me if anyone decided to spy on us. Even one of my daughters!”

  She’d have to be satisfied with that assurance. She paused, steeling herself to play her trump card, and said, “What if I told you that I happen to know that the Arkhel lands, the so-called Arkhel Waste, is a goldmine, waiting for the right developer to make use of its hidden riches?” She paused again, waiting for his reaction. But he was a good card-player and, whatever he might have felt on hearing her revelation, he was skilled at not letting it show on his face.

  “Go on.”

  “When I was last in Azhkendir, the Emperor’s alchymists discovered that a certain substance in the surrounding soil had extraordinary combustible potential. They call it ‘firedust’.”

  “Firedust,” he repeated, shaking his head. “Never heard of it.”

  “Of course you haven’t; it’s one of the Emperor’s most closely guarded secrets!”

  “And what is this volatile material?” His expression was wary, even skeptical.

  “It appears, as far as I understand it, to be the product of some kind of alchymical reaction in the soil brought about by Drakhaon’s Fire; it only occurs in sites that have been devastated by the Drakhaon’s breath.”

  “It sounds somewhat fanciful.”

  “But only a small area on Lord Nagarian’s domain has been mined so far. Just imagine the possibilities of digging up the whole Arkhel Waste!”

  Ranulph Arkhel said nothing—but she was certain that he was turning over in his mind what she had just revealed to him. The wolfhound yawned widely in the silence, revealing a jawful of yellowed teeth, and went back to sleep.

  “Mistress Arkhel—”

  “Please call me Lilias.”

  “I can’t help wondering why you’ve come to me with this information. There could be a conflict of interests, for a start. Who has the greater claim to the Arkhel lands: myself—or your son, Stavyomir? We would need to consult the lawyers.”

  “With so few of the clan left alive, I don’t see why we shouldn’t agree to work together and divide the proceeds equally,” Lilias said in her sweetest, most persuasive tones. “I feel it’s so important for Stavy to know that he’s not alone—and that he has a family to support and protect him.”

  “And then there’s the matter of the Drakhaon. Gavril Nagarian.”

  “He’s lost his powers.”

  “Can you be sure?” He was regarding her warily.

  “I haven’t seen Lord Nagarian since he attempted to abduct Stavyomir. My poor, brave Dysis still bears the scars he inflicted on her when she tried to stop him.” Lilias drew in a shuddering breath, risking a little glance at Ranulph to see what effect her tale was having upon him. “My main concern then was to take my son and get as far away from the Drakhaon as fast as possible. But since the Great Darkness last year, I have it on very good authority that he has lost all his powers and, in recognition of that fact, has even rejected the title of Drakhaon.”

  “The Great Darkness.” Lord Ranulph seemed to be reflecting on what she had said. She wondered if she had said too much. Did he know more about the recent events in Azhkendir than he was prepared to reveal?

  “And were you aware that there is still an Arkhel Guslyar living in Azhkendir?”

  “A Spirit Singer?” A tremor of genuine emotion had crept into his convivial tone.

  At last. I’ve found your weak spot, Lord Ranulph.

  She leaned forward and said earnestly, “She’s the granddaughter of Malusha.”

  “Malusha had a granddaughter? I . . . I had no idea.”

  “Her name is Kiukirilya. It’s a little unfortunate that she also happens to be Lord Gavril’s wife.” She made an extra effort to modulate her own voice, as even mentioning the name of Gavril Nagarian’s wife aloud still made her twitch with irritation. Why did he choose that useless, awkward servant girl to be his bride? She’s not fitted for the role of at all; she’s an embarrassment.

  “An Arkhel clanswoman marrying a Nagarian?”

  “Much has changed in Azhkendir, my lord, in the twenty years you’ve been away.”

  “But Gavril Nagarian is the Emperor’s staunchest ally. Anyone fool enough to make a move against him would be soon be crushed.”

  “Then,” Lilias said softly, “we must find a way to destroy that friendship. To raise doubts in the Emperor’s mind. It’s not so very long ago that they were bitter enemies.”

  “Doubts?” She was aware that Ranulph’s disinterested expression had altered. She had caught his attention at last. “What kind of doubts?”

  She laughed, delighted that he had taken the bait. “Have y
ou no imagination, my lord? There are so many delightful possibilities.”

  He was staring at her with an intensity that made her wonder if he suspected her motives. Had she gone too far in suggesting such a ploy?

  “Before I agree to anything,” he began but the sound of hoofs on the gravel outside distracted his attention; he glanced toward the mullioned window and Cuall woke up, lifting his shaggy head to listen.

  “Another visitor?” Lilias inquired as men’s voices could faintly be heard from the courtyard, and Cuall let out a low, warning growl.

  “I’m not expecting anyone,” Ranulph said, a slight frown furrowing his forehead. The voices grew louder; Lilias was certain that she could hear a querulous voice repeating, “You can’t see Lord Ranulph now; he has a guest.”

  “If you tell him Touchet is here, I’m sure my lord will make time in his busy schedule to see me.” The loud reply was tinged with unmistakable sarcasm—and an accent that was far from refined.

  There came a knock on the library door and a gaunt old man appeared, slightly stooped. “Forgive me, my lord, but this rude fellow calling himself Aristide Touchet insists on seeing you.”

  Lilias heard Ranulph sigh. “Very well. Mistress Arkhel,” he said, evidently still not ready to call her by her first name, “perhaps you would like to take tea with my wife and daughters? Ryndin, please escort Mistress Arkhel to the drawing room.”

  Lilias had no alternative but to go after the elderly butler out into the hall. There she spotted the unwelcome visitor, Touchet, closely examining one of the family portraits. He looked up as she swept past and she could sense his gaze following her, shamelessly ogling her. She chose not to acknowledge his presence—but noted the ostentatious way he was dressed, from the bright mustard yellow of his jacket to the glittering jeweled tie-pin in his cravat and the glint of a matching gold and diamond signet ring as he raised his hand to smooth back an errant lock of hair.