by Ash, Sarah
“As I hoped,” she said softly. “These may well be gates between this world and that other realm where your daemon and his kin have gone.” She seemed mesmerized by his work, gazing intently at each image in turn.
“So you recognize these places?”
“This one.” Morozhka pointed to the most recent landscape he had finished; a green-grassed plateau, high among mountain peaks. “This is the way I first came into this world. But then they appeared and sealed the gate. And I was trapped here.”
“Who appeared?” Gavril asked warily.
“The Gatekeepers. From the Ways Beyond. They drove us out, us Elder Ones. And then they forced us into hiding.”
“From the Ways Beyond?” Gavril repeated under his breath. Her words stirred something at the back of his mind. “Do you mean the Heavenly Guardians?”
“‘Heavenly’?” Morozhka’s voice hardened with contempt. “They punished all our followers, all those who clung to the old beliefs. And without followers, us Elder Ones, we fade and eventually cease to exist. It’s a slow, cruel way to die.”
Gavril’s teeth had begun to chatter uncontrollably; the intense cold was slowing his thoughts and he was struggling to make sense of what Lady Morozhka was saying. It sounded like a warning. “Have you seen the Heavenly Guardians? Here, in Azhkendir?”
“Not yet. But they’ve been watching us.” She wound her arms across her breast as if in self-defence. “I can sense them.”
“But why did Khezef leave these memories with me?” He was troubled by her words. “Does he want me to follow him?” What had Khezef foreseen in his future? “Are they coming to punish me?”
She turned to gaze at him and the frosty glitter of her eyes made him shiver. “Maybe so.”
“Even if we could find one of these gates, how could it be opened?” He’d have no truck with any resort to child sacrifice; no innocent blood would be shed or innocent souls stolen this time, no matter what it cost him. The blood-imbued rubies that once adorned Artamon’s crown and divided his sons and the empire were gone.
“Didn’t your daemon tell you?”
Gavril shook his head.
“Perhaps,” she said, her breath cold against his cheek as she leaned in toward him, “you need me to help you remember.” And before he could turn away, she kissed him, the touch of her icy lips flooding his mind with a riot of images and sensations.
He took a step back. There was a bitter tang of snow on her breath that sent fresh chills through him.
“Without my help, you would not have been able to paint these, would you? I’ve helped you. I unsealed the memories Khezef left in your mind—” She gave a sudden start, turning away to stare in the direction of the kastel.
“Your wife is in danger.”
“Danger?” Gavril echoed, caught off-guard.
“Go to her. Now.” The urgency in her voice propelled him toward the door. “We’ll talk again.” Her words carried after him across the snowy garden as he hurried, slipping and sliding up the frozen path in his haste.
***
“Halt!”
The clarion command brought Kiukiu to a sudden stop.
A radiance, pure as a cloudless morning sky lit the birch trunks, melting away the wisping mist, growing in brilliance until she was so dazzled it hurt her eyes to gaze at it and she raised her hands to shield her face.
This brightness—I’ve seen it before.
Eyes, pale as the blue waters of Lake Taigal, fixed her with a challenging stare, as the light-riven mists parted to reveal a tall Warrior, his great wings furled, armed with a spear whose translucent head glittered as if it had been carved from ice.
“Why are you here?”
Definitely not a Lost Soul, this one.
“Answer me.” His long hair shimmered with the sheen of sunlight seen through rain, as he came toward her. She tried to run, but found herself unable to move.
He’s one of the Heavenly Guardians. “Beautiful, yet terrible to behold.” This is how Khezef must have looked before he rebelled and was imprisoned in the Realm of Shadows .
“The living are forbidden to enter the Ways Beyond.” He leveled the tip of the crystalline spearhead at her breast. “How did you find your way?”
Kiukiu could feel powerful vibrations emanating from the spear. Terrified, she could only shake her head. If he attacks me with that weapon—even in my spirit form—what will it do to me?
The young Warrior’s stern expression showed no sign of softening. “You must be one of those rebellious Spirit Singers I’ve been warned to look out for.”
She nodded, wondering if he was going to punish her. Or suppose he punishes Grandma for speaking with me? “Please,” she managed to whisper, “don’t hurt my grandmother. I came looking for her—she didn’t ask to be found.”
The pale, stern eyes stared at her, unblinking, as the Warrior raised his spear, pointing it toward her forehead. A bolt of pure energy, keen and cold as a sliver of ice, pierced her consciousness.
Everything was obliterated in a sheen of frost.
When her vision cleared, she was alone. There was no sign of the young Winged Warrior or Malusha. The familiar birch grove had melted away. Mists were swirling around her, stirring up little puffs of a fine, grimy dust.
Out of the corner of her eye Kiukiu glimpsed shadowy forms materializing in the swirling mist, heard a dry whispering on the breeze that began to form words.
“Help us,Spirit Singer.”
Wavering figures, dust gray, insubstantial as skeletal leaves, reached out with long spindle fingers to paw at her. Lifeless, hungry eyes gleamed through the billowing mist.
“Take us back with you.”
Chapter 19
Don’t look at them. Don’t look into their eyes.
Kiukiu shrank away from the clustering shadows as they surrounded her, swarming closer and closer. If a Spirit Singer gazed into the dead eyes of a Lost Soul, they were lost. Sucked into the miasmic aura of decaying memories and bitter regrets, they were easy prey for the Lost Ones who would gorge on their spirit energy, leaving their victims’ physical bodies soulless and inanimate, locked in a deathlike trance until the last glimmerings of life faded, and nothing remained but an empty husk.
The sickly smell of moldering charnel breath made her want to retch.
How do I get home? Her mind had gone blank. The mists were swirling around her and stirring up clouds of dust. Not good. I must have strayed too close to the Realm of Shadows. Or did that Warrior send me here?
“Kiukiu!”
Gavril’s voice . . . calling her name.
But that was impossible. Without Khezef to be his guide and protector, the Ways Beyond were inaccessible to him. She struggled onward through the choking dust clouds toward the sound of the voice, eyes closed, straining to hear it again above the ominous roar of the infernal winds.
“Kiukiu. Wake up, Kiukiu.”
Someone was shaking her.
“Please wake up!”
She felt a warm hand encircle her own, pressing it firmly, dragging her out of the dream.
She surfaced, wheezing, gasping for air, to see eyes of deepest sea-blue staring at her. She clutched at Gavril like a drowning woman.
“Don’t scare me like that, Kiukiu.” His arms went round her and she clung to him, trying to reassure herself that he was real, flesh and bone and warm blood. “You were lying there in a deep trance. And I couldn’t reach you.”
Kiukiu blinked. The lamps were lit; it was night. “How long was I—?”
“Too long. What on earth were you trying to do?”
“I wanted to see Malusha. I wanted to tell her about Larisa.”
“But you promised me you wouldn’t risk going back to the Ways Beyond.” He gazed at her sternly. “You’ve got a daughter to think of now. Larisa needs you.”
She turned her face away from his. How could he know how much those words hurt her? Larisa was the only reason she had ventured back to that strange and unknowabl
e place. And it’s all my fault, I should never have agreed to Anagini’s bond. But I was so desperate, I hadn’t the wits or the strength to argue with her.
And then she remembered what Malusha had told her. “The Magus,” she said, thinking aloud. “Where can I find him, I wonder?”
Gavril held her at arm’s length, gazing at her quizzically. “Did you leave your wits in the Ways Beyond? Why on earth would you seek him out after he used you so callously?”
“He owes me—and you too. You saved his life.”
Gavril sighed and his hands fell away from her shoulders. “I could write to Eugene and ask for his advice. But the last I heard was that Linnaius has been replaced by Altan Kazimir as the Imperial Artificier.”
The wind whined outside the window, setting the shutters rattling. Kiukiu went very still, listening intently. Was that a faint whisper of song, sung by a high, eerie voice, borne on the icy wind?
“White feathers come tumbling down . . .”
“What is it?”
“Tumbling down . . .”
“Can’t you hear it?” The strange, haunting refrain sent snow-cold shivers down Kiukiu’s spine.
“I can hear the wind.”
“Someone’s singing out there.” She went to the window, opening the shutters to try to peer out through the frosted panes.
“It must be one of the servants.”
“I’ve never heard one of our girls sing that old song.” Kiukiu closed her eyes as she strained to catch the elusive strains but a fresh gust of wind drowned the plaintive melody. When it died down, there was no trace left behind, as if the wind had blown it far away.
Gavril caught hold of her hand in a firm reassuring grip and pulled her close. “Come to bed,” he said. It was a command she could not refuse.
***
“You’ve been painting again.” Kiukiu sniffed, wrinkling her nose at the strong odors of turpentine and oil paint that seemed to exude from every pore and hair of her husband’s body. “Can I see what you’ve been working on? Please?”
Gavril hesitated, his gaze becoming distant. “I’m out of practice. Nothing’s ready yet.”
“You said you were painting a portrait of Larisa. I’d love to see the sketches.” She rolled over onto her stomach, propping her chin on her hands to gaze at him.
“I can show you my sketchbook. But it’s freezing in the summerhouse; I’m still clearing up, making paints, cleaning brushes.” Was he being evasive for a reason?
“Gavril Nagarian, anyone would think you were keeping a mistress out there,” she said, half jesting, half in earnest.
“Well, if so, she’d be a frozen mistress by now.” Was that a glint of teasing humor in his eyes? “Sometimes you say the silliest things, Kiukiu.”
She opened her mouth to protest but he made a grab for her, catching her in his arms, rolling her over onto her back and stifling her objection with a long and deep kiss. When she surfaced for air, he said, “Why would I need a mistress when I have you?” and she felt her earlier suspicions begin to melt away as his roving hands slipped beneath her night gown, exploring, caressing. “Stop! That tickles!” she cried, giggling uncontrollably, but her protests soon subsided and she surrendered to his desires.
***
Do I really know you, Gavril Nagarian?
By the dying light from the embers in the grate Kiukiu could just make out the outline of his sleeping face, his soft, dark lashes, the firm arch of his brows. He looked much younger asleep, the frown lines of responsibility and worry smoothed away. There had been a desperate intensity to his lovemaking, as if he were trying to lose himself in the act, or exorcise the fears he still would not, could not talk about. But then, how well can anyone really know another person? She couldn’t resist gently stroking a straying lock of hair from his forehead; he was so deeply, trustingly asleep that he didn’t even stir.
He’s changed. Perhaps he’s changed more than I realized—more than I wanted to accept. He went through so much at the Serpent Gate; maybe he can never be the same Gavril I fell in love with.
Never the same . . . That thought sent an ache of desolation throughout her whole being. No, he’s making a good recovery. It was never going to be easy for him, learning to survive without Khezef’s powers. I mustn’t expect too much of him too soon.
Another niggling worry surfaced again, one that had been troubling her for many months. We were apart for so long. Maybe he met another woman—in Francia, or back home in Smarna—and now he’s having regrets at having settled down with me. After all, artists are said to be free spirits, so . . . But the thought of Gavril being unfaithful was intolerable and she pushed it from her mind.
We were destined for each other. I couldn’t bear it if he fell in love with someone else.
***
Ilsi was serving up her winter soup, a hearty herb-flavored bacon broth filled with barley, chunks of turnip and carrot. All the staff had gathered in the kitchen for the midday meal as it was the warmest room in the kastel but, to Kiukiu’s exasperation, Gavril was absent—again.
“He’s the lord of the kastel,” Ilsi said on seeing Kiukiu’s sour expression, “he can do as he pleases. He must be busy with official work.”
Kiukiu shook her head; she had gone to call him, only to find his study empty, except for a daunting pile of official documents piled up on his desk awaiting his approval. “He’s probably in his studio again.”
“Shall I keep some soup hot for him?”
“I’ll take him some in a canteen. The fresh air will do me good.”
“Fresh?” Ilsi repeated. “It’s cold enough to freeze your ears off out there today.”
Kiukiu wrapped herself up in a shawl and hooded cloak, pulled on her mittens, and set off through the garden over the fresh skim of snow that had fallen in the night. Her boots crunched over the frozen crystals as she carefully carried Ilsi’s soup toward the summerhouse. It was a day of brilliant clarity; she could see as far as the Kharzhgylls, whose craggy peaks glittered white against the peerless blue of the sky. The sun might be shining overhead but the wind off the moors was bitingly chill, rattling the bare branches like skeletal fingers and making the tip of her nose tingle.
She reached the summerhouse and set the canteen of soup down to tap at the door.
“Gavril,” she called, “I’ve brought your lunch.” When there was no reply, she sighed and said, “I’m coming in!” Too engrossed in his painting to even hear his wife’s voice.
It was warm enough inside the summerhouse for Kiukiu to be able to push back her hood as she gazed around. She could feel a faint glow emanating from the stove in the corner and the strong odor of the oil paints made her wind-stung eyes water. But there was no sign of her husband.
“Gavril?” She gazed around her, noting all the signs of work in progress: the brushes lying on the paint-smeared table; the charcoal sketches strewn across the floor; the canvas propped up on the easel with just a detail or two already filled in. This soup will go cold. Where can he have got to?
Several of his mother Elysia’s paintings hung on the wall: watercolors of the villa garden in Colchise, vibrant with the sun-burned tones of the hot Smarnan summer. Kiukiu loved to look at these intimate domestic pictures, knowing that the dark-haired boy sketched fishing in the rock pools on the shore, sitting high in the gnarled branches of an old peach tree or helping dig the kitchen garden, was Gavril, captured by his doting mother at the age of nine, ten, eleven . . .
I hope he’s keeping a record of Larisa too. I’d love to see his latest drawings. She set the soup on top of the iron stove and popped another log inside, stoking the dying fire. I’ll bet he’s just being a perfectionist, not wanting to let me see his work in progress.. .
And then curiosity overcame any other considerations and she found herself going to the stack of
canvases in the darkest corner of the summerhouse, kneeling down to steal a quick, illicit glance.
Landscapes . . . places she had never seen
before, each one more strange than the one before, culminating in one painting that made her gasp out loud.
A crazed daub of lurid colors, compelling yet utterly incomprehensible: swirls of intense, luminous blues and morbid purples, lit with star-splatters of white and yellow .
Is Gavril losing his mind? She sat back on her heels, her heart pounding, as it stirred distant yet familiar sensations deep within her. The more she looked at it, the more disturbed it made her feel. This reminds me of the Ways Beyond. She sensed that there was a faint skim of shadow overlaying the image, as though the scene were glimpsed through other eyes. Drakhaoul eyes?
Are these Gavril’s memories—or Khezef’s?
Khezef, always suffering in the role imposed upon him by his fellow Winged Warriors, forced—until he rebelled—to be Heaven’s Avenger: the Bringer of Death.
“Kiukiu?” Gavril stood in the open doorway, stamping the snow from his boots. He was carrying a battered leather-bound volume.
She started guiltily, caught in the act of snooping. “I—I brought you soup . . .” On seeing the distraught expression on his face, her voice died away.
He crossed the summerhouse floor and placed himself in front of the canvases, as if to shield her from further exposure to their malign influence.
“You shouldn’t have looked.” His voice was hoarse from the intense cold outside.
“I’m sorry.” She hung her head, feeling like a naughty child caught dipping a finger in the honey jar. And then, defiantly, she rose and gripped him by the arms. “Gavril, are these your memories? Or Khezef’s?”
He did not meet her eyes, looking beyond her. “Does it matter?”
“But why should you bear the burden of his guilt? Why should you go on suffering? I know you still have nightmares.” Her fingers pressed harder into the worn leather of his greatcoat.
Still he said nothing. Undeterred, she tried a different tack. “You’re a portraitist. When did you start to paint landscapes?”
His gaze, still centered on some far-distant point, clouded over.
“Ever since you met Lady Morozhka in the forest, you’ve been . . . different.”