by Ash, Sarah
Since the dreams had started he had felt the need to escape, to find a place where he could be alone, undisturbed, to try to depict what he had been experiencing and purge the darkness polluting his mind. Suddenly he had begun to paint again and, having started, he could not stop.
I have to rid myself of these images. How can I be around Larisa with this black mood shadowing everything I see? How can I trust myself?
“Lord Gavril!” The voices were coming nearer. He stood back from the canvas, looking critically at what he had done. He had wielded his brushes in a kind of controlled frenzy, without any preliminary sketching or planning, just trying to let out whatever had been shadowing his dreaming mind.
How can any trace of Khezef still be possessing me? He’s gone from this world for good.
Yet when he looked at what he had painted—violent slashes of color daubed like freshly spilled blood over a nightscape rich in luminous blues—he felt a wave of revulsion and guilt engulf him.
I can never show this to anyone.
The Drakhaoul had forced him to seek out innocent blood to preserve their fragile symbiosis and he could never forget it. Khezef had taken control of him whenever he hunted down his prey
He would have to hide it with the others: the series of portraits that he had painted from his guiltiest memories, each canvas the image of one of his victims, a gallery of pallid dead girls, staring out accusingly from ghost-dark eyes at the viewer. He had hoped to exorcise the phantoms from his conscience by bringing them back to life in paint but all he had done was make his memories even more vivid and increase his torment.
How can I ever pay for what I did? I—Khezef—we seduced those innocent girls and left them for dead.
He snatched the painting, the oil still wet, and placed the canvas in the darkest recess of the summerhouse, face to the wall.
“My lord!” Semyon appeared outside the summerhouse, panting for breath. “A messenger. From the Emperor.”
***
The imperial dispatches from Tielen were delivered by a travel-stained courier who had ridden post all the way from the new harbor at Narvazh. While Ilsi served the Emperor’s trusted servant refreshments in the parlor and the stable boys were tending to his horse, Gavril retired to his study to examine the dispatch box which, the courier explained, contained new trade treaties. It seemed that the Emperor urgently required his official seal and signature to confirm Azhkendir’s participation.
But Gavril knew Eugene well enough to suspect that mere trade treaties would not require delivery by a specially selected imperial agent. The instant he opened the box (using the secret cipher agreed upon between them) he detected a shimmer of Linnaius’s alchymical mirror-dust, only released when the correct codes were entered. Senses set tingling by the Magus’s iridescent powder, he watched as it worked its magic on the blank page, swiftly revealing the Emperor’s clear, strong pen-strokes:
“My dear friend,
“Our agents in Tourmalise have alerted us to the presence of a woman calling herself Lilias Arkhel in the spa resort of Sulien. She has made contact with the family of a certain Lord Ranulph whom we have been watching for some while. Lord R’s real name is Ranozhir Arkhel and he is the youngest brother of Lord Stavyor.”
But I thought they were all dead. Gavril looked up from the glistening script, trying to absorb this unexpected and unwelcome information. If the druzhina came to hear that Lord Stavyor’s bloodline had not been eradicated after all, all the old hatreds and grievances toward the rival clan would be reawakened.
“Lord R managed to erase his true identity so effectively that we only made a definitive identification a few months ago. He’s married into the local gentry in Tourmalise and has three children. I wouldn’t have bothered to warn you if that woman had not inveigled herself into Sulien society and, more troublingly, into his household. It seems that she is now bosom friends with Lord R’s wife. She’s plotting something, Gavril, I’m certain of it. And as she bears a grudge against you and your household, I wanted to warn you to be on your guard.
“It’s possible, of course, that these suspicions are unfounded, and Lord R has no wish to reveal his true identity, preferring to continue to play the part of a Sulien country gentleman. But our agents have discovered that he is over-fond of the gaming tables and has—unbeknown to his wife—run up considerable debts. If his creditors are not paid soon, they will seize the estate (which he married into) and leave his son Toran and daughters without any inheritance. It doesn’t take much imagination to see that such a situation might well drive him back to Azhkendir to reclaim his family lands.
“My advisors are unfamiliar with Azhkendi laws of inheritance so I cannot offer any useful advice here except to urge you to consult your lawyer as soon as possible—and to be very careful, my dear friend; that woman is not only a skilled manipulator but she is also extremely vindictive. She bears you and your wife a deep grudge. And now that you and I are no longer ‘protected’ as we once were, we must be doubly vigilant.”
“Lilias.” Even speaking her name aloud stirred up feelings of unease and revulsion. And guilt. Crazed by his daemon-driven thirst for blood, Gavril had attacked Lilias’s maid Dysis and badly disfigured her with one wild slash of his glittering claws as she tried to protect Lilias’s baby son.
He stood up, almost knocking over his chair and began to pace the little room, barely able to contain his agitation.
I must talk with Avorian about this. And keep watch at the ports for any visitors from Tourmalise; there can’t be that many arriving at this time of year. But how can I do that without alerting Askold and the druzhina? He stopped pacing abruptly. What’s the matter with me? I’ve faced far more terrifying foes than Lilias. Why am I sweating over one woman?
A vivid memory of Lilias surfaced; sensuously beautiful Lilias with her creamy skin and fiery hair, gazing at him with those beguiling green eyes that artfully hid her true designs. He shuddered. “Beautiful, yes,” he murmured aloud, “but ambitious . . . and ruthless.” Too many of his household had died because of her machinations. “She must not be allowed anywhere near Kiukiu or Larisa.”
He looked back at the Emperor’s letter to read the postscript.
“Astasia sends her most affectionate good wishes to you, your wife, and little daughter, as do I. She and Karila commissioned the Naming Day gift for Larisa from Paer Paersson, one of Tielen’s most talented jewelers; we hope you like it.
“Eugene.”
Gavril took out a little casket nestling inside the dispatch box. Opening it, he saw a necklace inside, delicately fashioned with tiny jeweled flowers, sapphire petals around pearl centers, strung on three slender chains of gold. He smiled, his heart warmed by Eugene’s thoughtfulness. He took out pen, ink and paper and began to write a reply:
“The gift for Larisa is exquisite; how did you guess that her eyes are blue? I enclose a little pastel sketch I made of her last week; as you will see, she’s growing fast. We cannot thank you both enough for such a delightful present.”
And after penning the usual courtesies, he added as postscript:
“I will be vigilant.”
Chapter 8
Song for a Naming Day
The Great Hall of Kastel Drakhaon was bustling with servants and druzhina, busily hanging garlands of ivy and rowan berries from the beams, kindling a fire of pine logs in the cavernous fireplace, and setting out the tables for Larisa’s Naming Day feast. Sosia was marshalling her forces in the kitchen with the ferocity of a general in mid-campaign. Kiukiu retreated to the quiet of the bedchamber and stood at the oriel window with Larisa in her arms, looking down at the torchlit courtyard as the guests began to arrive.
“All these grand visitors coming to celebrate your Naming Day.” Larisa did not seem much interested, nuzzling her little nose against her mother’s shoulder, on which Kiukiu had placed a piece of linen to protect her best gown. “Aren’t we lucky that the first snows are late this year?”
A group o
f gray-robed monks had entered the courtyard; Gavril appeared below, hurrying across the cobbles to greet them.
“There’s your daddy!” Kiukiu cried delightedly. “Doesn’t he look handsome? And that’s Abbot Yephimy; you’ve got to promise me you won’t cry when he blesses you with the holy water from Saint Sergius’s shrine.”
A horse-drawn coach turned in under the archway; the postilion leapt down to open the door and help the occupants out.
“My lady, are you ready to receive your guests?” Sosia was calling her from downstairs.
Larisa gave a little burp as Kiukiu turned away from the window. “Larisa, don’t you dare be sick on your lovely lace dress. Auntie Sosia spent a long time sewing it for you.” Kiukiu hastily checked her shoulder to make sure that there was no stain of regurgitated milk on the blue sheen of the hyacinth silk. Trying to quell a sudden unwelcome flutter of nerves, she set out for the Great Hall.
***
It was not so long since Kiukiu had been one of the kastel serving maids, and she felt awkward, more used to waiting on the guests than greeting them as their hostess. She hoped that her welcoming smile was not beginning to look strained.
“All you have to do is be the proud mother,” Gavril had reassured her when she admitted her anxieties the night before. “That’s all that anyone will expect. They’ll be too busy cooing over Larisa—and enjoying the feast.”
“You have a lovely daughter, my lady.”
A slender woman, modestly veiled, stood before her. “Thank you,” she began. “I don’t think we’ve—”
“I come from Khitari,” said the stranger, letting her veils drop away, revealing a face of exquisite beauty: almond eyes of a liquid, honey brown, fringed by long, black lashes, set in a heart-shaped face. “My name is Khulan. I bring gifts from Chinua. He sends his deepest apologies that he cannot be here with you for this special occasion.”
“You’re a friend of Chinua’s?” Forgetting all decorum, Kiukiu reached out and shook Khulan’s hand warmly. “Is he well? How is he faring?”
“This is for you, my lady: a special blend of tea that your grandmother was fond of.” She handed Kiukiu a little caddy of black and scarlet lacquer. “And I am the other half of his gift.”
“ You are?”
“I am one of Khan Vachir’s court singers; if it pleases you and Lord Gavril, I will entertain your guests after the feast.”
“Oh, that would be wonderful!” Kiukiu turned to Gavril. “Songs from such an illustrious Khitari singer? We’d be honored, wouldn’t we?” When she had been traveling across the steppes of Khitari with Chinua, she had been entranced by the wild, throbbing lilt of the ballads sung around the fireside at night.
“Lord Gavril!” The powerful voice of Lord Stoyan, the governor of Azhgorod, boomed out across the hall and Kiukiu saw him approaching at a swift stride. “We need to discuss the new harbor at Narvazh. The customs officers aren’t keeping up with all the paperwork and Tielen smugglers are already taking advantage. “
“Of course; excuse me.” Gavril, distracted, nodded his agreement to Kiukiu and went to join the governor.
***
Kiukiu stole a quick glance at the cradle. Larisa was sound asleep, one little hand clutching the crumpled sheet tightly to her cheek. She had yelled loudly enough when Abbot Yephimy had performed the Naming Ceremony, much to the approval of the druzhina, and her mother’s acute embarrassment.
And look at you now, sleeping so peacefully in the middle of your feast.
A sudden lull in the babble of voices made Kiukiu glance up. Khulan, smiling, had settled herself, cross-legged, on the floor in the center of the hall, her slender-necked dombra balanced on her lap. The guests fell silent.
After a few moments’ tuning, Khulan announced, “A song in praise of Gavril, Lord of Azhkendir, and his wife, Lady Kiukirilya, who is much honored in Khitari for her service to the khan.”
A roar of approval erupted from the druzhina, raising their glasses in a toast to their lord and lady.
Blushing, Kiukiu sat back in her chair, as Khulan struck the first notes on the sonorous strings of the dombra. Yet soon her embarrassment melted into a feeling of warm contentment as she surveyed the firelit hall.
“Praise to the Dragon of Azhkendir and praise to his brave warriors . . .”
The druzhina began to sing along with the stirring refrain, stamping their feet enthusiastically in time to the music until the hall was filled with their lusty voices.
“She’s no fool, this Khulan,” Gavril murmured in Kiukiu’s ear. “She’s won the druzhina over—and that’s no mean feat.”
Disturbed by the rowdy singing, Larisa stirred restlessly in her cradle and let out a wail of protest. Kiukiu put her foot on the rocker of the cradle and began to press vigorously. “Hush, Larisa, not now.”
“Idiots!” cried Semyon, clambering up on his bench to try to quiet his fellow druzhina and sloshing ale on his friend Dunai beside him. “You’ve woken the baby!”
Khulan’s agile fingers instantly switched to a gentle rocking motive on the dombra. As soon as she began to sing, in a voice as sweet and cooing as a forest dove, Kiukiu realized that she had chosen a Khitari lullaby. And to her amazement, Larisa’s protests subsided and one tiny thumb found its way into her mouth as the soothing melody cast its spell over the hall.
“That was magical,” Kiukiu whispered to Khulan. “You must teach me that song before you leave.”
Khulan nodded, then turned back to the audience. “And now, a ballad from my homeland, the tale of a water witch and a young girl.”
This time there was a dark, ominous quality to the notes she drew from the dombra’s deepest strings.
“She can grant your wish, the jade-haired witch of the springs. But take care. For nothing comes without a price. She never gives without taking something in return. Something you value more than life itself . . .”
Kiukiu shivered. Shadows like mountain mist were seeping into the hall, blotting out the rapt faces of the guests until all she could see was the singer, head bent intently over the strings of her instrument. The sacred snake-mark on Kiukiu’s ankle began to throb.
“‘If I grant your wish, you must give me your firstborn child,’” sang Khulan in a low, foreboding tone . “But the foolish girl didn’t heed the witch’s warning . . .”
The singer slowly raised her head. To Kiukiu’s horror, she saw that Khulan’s eyes were no longer brown but the piercing green of Anagini, Guardian of the Jade Springs. And the shadowy mists swirling around them both had taken on the viridian tinge of the steam that rose from the hidden healing waters.
“Have you forgotten, Kiukirilya? One year has passed since you made me that promise.” Her words, softly sibilant, made Kiukiu’s heart stop with fear.
“S-seven years,” Kiukiu stammered. “You said seven years. She’s only three months old.”
“And if you tell a single soul of our bargain, the cure wrought by my Jade Springs will be undone, and you will become an old woman again.”
“Won’t you take me instead?” Kiukiu burst out. “At least let Larisa stay with her father. Let me come serve you in her place.”
“The child of a Spirit Singer and a Lord Drakhaon is a unique and special being. She was conceived when your lord was still possessed by the Drakhaoul Khezef, wasn’t she? There will be others who come to seek her out, Kiukirilya, others who will seek to use her for their own ends. Others who are not so kind as I.”
“To use her?” Kiukiu had never thought of such a possibility. “Are you saying that she has powers? How can that be? The Drakhaouls are gone from the world—and the Serpent Gate is sealed for all eternity.”
“I can protect her. I can train her to use her powers. But left unprotected, untrained, she may not live to see her seventh birthday.”
“Is her life in danger? Tell me!”
“The bargain was broken,” floated the singer’s voice through the mists , “and the beloved child disappeared, never to
be seen again. So beware the jade-haired witch of the springs . . . she never gives without taking something in return.”
“No!” Kiukiu cried, snatching Larisa out of her cradle and clutching her close. The song halted abruptly. To Kiukiu’s surprise she saw that everyone was staring at her. There was no trace of green mist swirling around the hall.
“Kiukiu?” Gavril said as Larisa began to wail. He stood up and put his arms around them both. “Khulan; could you sing us something more cheerful?”
“I apologize, my lord.” Khulan bowed, and instantly began to play a lively dance melody. Semyon leapt to his feet and began clapping in time to the beat. “Come on, lads!” he shouted. “Let’s show the girls our best moves!” He made a somersaulting leap from his bench into the center of the hall and launched into one of the traditional Azhkendi warriors’ dances, arms crossed, stamping and kicking with muscular agility.
Thank you, Sem, Kiukiu thought gratefully as the young druzhina’s prowess drew others to join him and the guests’ enthusiastic clapping urged them to try wilder leaps and turns.
Gavril eased Kiukiu back down into her chair. “What was that about, love?” he murmured into her ear.
So he had sensed nothing of Anagini’s presence?
“Forgive me,” she said. “That song just made me feel sad.”
***
Even here, in Azhkendir, Anagini is watching me. Kiukiu sat in front of the mirror, listlessly removing the pins from her hair. Her shadowy reflection, gilded by the trembling candle flames, stared back as one wheat-gold lock after another was released. Would it be so terrible to see my youth fade away again if it meant little Risa could stay here with us? She began to pull a comb through her hair, remembering that time a year ago when it had turned gray and her skin had wrinkled. But what use would I be to her as a mother? The time I spent wandering in the Realm of Shadows drained so much of my lifeforce. It wasn’t vanity that drove me to beg for Anagini’s help. I was dying.