by Ash, Sarah
“But that’s—that’s blackmail.” Gavril could scarcely choke the words out. No wonder Kiukiu had become so remote, so furtive over the last few months. Bearing this intolerable burden alone must have been what eventually drove her to run away. Now he felt ashamed at the times his suspicions and hurt, confused feelings had ended in arguments and hurtful silences. But how could I have guessed? I assumed she didn’t trust me enough to confide in me.
“The Serpent Woman has bewitched your wife. Her poison has been working in her system for a long time. It will be very difficult to persuade her to believe you. But you must persist.”
“Poison?”
“Anagini seals her bonds with her victims by biting them with her fangs. You’ll find a mark somewhere on your wife’s body: her ankle, her wrist, maybe even her neck. That snake-bite is the proof that her venom is still in your wife’s body.”
“There is a mark—I thought it an old scar—on Kiukiu’s left ankle.” Everything that Taliahad said made sense.
“As we suspected.”
“So Anagini really is a snake?”
Taliahad gave a brusque nod. “Of the worst kind. One that preys on those whom she compels to serve and worship her.”
“I had no idea.” Gavril had wanted answers but now that he had them, they were hard to digest.
“We have to try to save your daughter before Anagini takes control of her.” The Guardian took a step closer. “And that’s why I’ve been empowered by Prince Galizur to break our centuries-old silence and give you our aid.”
“Prince Galizur?” A shudder of a shadowy memory awoke in the recesses of Gavril’s mind at the mention of that name. Is that a warning Khezef implanted in my brain?
“I was ordered to give you a choice, Gavril Nagarian. Accept our help and save your daughter—or risk losing her forever to Anagini.”
“This Elder One, Anagini; why does she want my daughter?”
“You were still possessed by Khezef when the child was conceived. Your wife is a Spirit Singer. Your child is unique; she has inherited your wife’s abilities to travel the Ways Beyond, and that, mingled with the daemon-imbued blood of the Nagarians, means that she is unlike any other.”
Gavril could hardly take in the explanation. I was still possessed by Khezef when Larisa was conceived. She is as much Khezef’s child as mine? What did Khezef do to me that night? How did he use my body . . . and my seed? “Unlike any other?” he echoed.
“She is a Key. She holds within her the power to open a gateway to the place where Khezef and his kin have gone. Anagini and the other Elder Ones intend to follow them there before their waning powers run out. But they need a Key.”
“ That place?”
A second doorway towers above the Drakhaouls, limned in molten silver. It opens and light pours out, translucent and pure.
Gavril would never forget. The place where he had said his final farewell to Khezef. The gateway beyond the Serpent Gate on Ty Nagar.
“But if the Elder Ones use my daughter to open that gateway—”
“The strain on her little body will be too great. She’ll die.”
Taliahad’s blunt answer struck home, a knife-stab to the heart.
“I’ll do anything to protect Larisa,” Gavril heard himself saying. “And Kiukiu, if it isn’t already too late. But what can you do to help me?”
“What is your greatest impediment? What’s slowing you down in your search?”
“I need to find them as soon as possible.” Gavril looked up, meeting the Guardian’s penetrating ice-blue gaze. “Can you give me back my wings?”
“Your wings were Khezef’s. Only he could give them back to you.”
Mute with disappointment, Gavril nodded. His emotions were in turmoil; all he could see was Larisa’s eyes staring trustingly into his when she stretched her chubby arms to him, asking to be picked up . So innocent, so vulnerable . . .
“I can give you new wings. Different wings.”
Taliahad’s words didn’t make sense at first.
“But I can’t restore Khezef’s destructive powers.”
“I don’t want them.” Even the thought of wielding Drakhaoul’s Fire again horrified Gavril—as did the greater dread of having to pay the price in terms of physical cravings. “I don’t want them ever again. I just need to find my wife and daughter.”
“These new wings will not be so easily mastered. They will cause you agonizing physical suffering. Every wing stroke will hurt, because you will no longer be sharing the burden with your Drakhaoul. Are you still prepared?”
“Anything to save Risa from this Serpent Witch.” Gavril didn’t hesitate in replying. Khezef’s child, his child, didn’t matter; he loved her and would endure any amount of physical pain to protect her.
“Very well.” Taliahad turned his head to gaze over his shoulder at his own furled wings. He paused a moment, as though steeling himself, then, to Gavril’s surprise, tugged a feather from his left wing—and another from his right. A translucent ichor dripped, like blood, from the quill end of both feathers. Angel’s blood? It must have hurt, for Gavril saw a fleeting look of anguish dull the icy brilliance of his eyes.
“Are you ready?”
Gavril nodded, wondering how Taliahad was going to conjure wings for him. Taliahad drew closer and, raising his right hand, suddenly plunged the feather he had plucked into Gavril’s right shoulder-blade, passing through his greatcoat, shirt and skin, deep into the flesh beneath. The sudden blow pierced Gavril’s body like a lightning blade, radiating pulses down his arm and back. He gasped with the shock and dropped to one knee, trying to regain his breath.
“Brace yourself.” And before Gavril could recover enough to stammer out another word, Taliahad stabbed him in the left shoulder with the second feather, leaving him clutching his arms across his shuddering body, trying to hold in the bright agony.
As he crouched on the rough turf, feeling wave after wave of pain surge through him, he wondered dully whether Taliahad had merely been sent to punish him after all—and had indulged in this cruel deception just to increase his torment.
It feels as if those pale, pearl-sheened feathers are spreading filaments throughout my body, burrowing into every vein and sinew, weaving an intricate network of new connections.
Or is my body rejecting them?
And then the cresting waves of pain reached a climax so shatteringly excruciating that it almost wrenched him from his conscious mind.
Must endure this for Larisa. For Kiukiu.
Something burst from his shoulder blades. The propulsion threw him sideways onto the ground. Scrambling back up to his knees, he glanced behind him again to see an extraordinary sight. Slowly issuing from his throbbing shoulder-blades came blood-slicked feathers attached to a viscous blue membrane; first one, then another wing gradually emerged from his torn, protesting body. Shaking, he tried to stand, only to drop back to his knees.
“I can’t get up; they’re too heavy.”
“Be patient; the fledging is not yet complete.” Taliahad gripped him by the right shoulder, steadying him against himself. “The sun and the breeze will finish the process; as the ichor dries, the feathers will become lighter.”
The furled, powerful wings were utterly different from Khezef’s; they were feathered in shifting shades of soft, iridescent blues, a paler version of those sprouting from Taliahad’s back.
“They’re . . . magnificent.” Awed, Gavril closed his eyes, concentrating on the newly-fledged wings, attempting to open and spread them wide. A searing pain shot through his back and down his arms.
“It may take you a while to master them,” said Taliahad as Gavril dropped, gasping, to his knees. “You have no Drakhaoul to help you.”
Gavril nodded, unable to speak for fear of disgracing himself and howling aloud. It can’t continue at this intensity, the pain will dull soon enough. God knows, I’ve endured worse before.
He waited for what seemed an interminable time until the shudderings
ceased.“How can I go among other people like this? They’re so . . . obvious.”
Taliahad gave him a disdainful look. “I’ll teach you how to conceal them. Though it won’t be easy for you to master in a short while a skill that usually takes us many of your mortal years to perfect. Watch—and copy me.” He gave a little shrug of his shoulders, folding his shimmering wings behind him but, as he tucked them neatly away, Gavril saw him falter.
Something’s amiss. Could it be that he’s not so different from Khezef after all?
“How is it, Lord Taliahad,” Gavril asked softly, “that you’ve come to the mortal world without a body of flesh and blood?”
The keen icy light in Taliahad’s eyes was dimming.
“I thought you aethyric creatures were unable to survive here for long without a mortal body to act as your host.”
A look at once agonized and furious, passed across Taliahad’s handsome features. Gavril realized he must have guessed rather too accurately what was ailing the young Guardian.
“We have to assume a physical form when entering the mortal world—but it’s hard to sustain for any length of time.” Taliahad’s voice had lost its vigor; he paused, as though making a supreme effort to control of himself. “It drains our energies, forcing us back to the Ways Beyond to restore ourselves.”
“So you would never do what Khezef was forced to do? Merge with one of us mortals to survive?” Gavril knew only too well what the Drakhaouls had undergone when they were stranded in the mortal world: outcasts from the Ways Beyond, summoned from their eternal prison by the priests of Ty Nagar and forced to do their bidding.
Taliahad shook his head. “That is forbidden. Galizur would send me to the Realm of Dust . . . if I transgressed.” He sagged, dropping to one knee, the pearlescent shimmer in his wings dulling even as Gavril watched. Gavril could not help but feel concern for him; it was hard to see such a strong, beautiful aethyric creature fade so fast even as he looked on. Echoes of Khezef’s sufferings resonated through his own body.
“I can manage on my own from now,” he said. “Go back, Taliahad.”
Taliahad managed to raise his drooping head to gaze at Gavril. “Are you sure? Are you strong enough . . . to confront Anagini?”
“You’ve given me this gift,” Gavril said, gesturing to his wings. The burning ache in his shoulders was hard to bear but he was certain he could learn to endure it if it was for Risa’s sake. “Thank you. If you hadn’t come to my aid, I don’t know what I would have—”
“Save your daughter.” Taliahad seemed to rally a little. He forced himself to his feet, swaying alarmingly. “Forgive me, Gavril Nagarian. I have overstayed my time here.” Slowly, shakily, he spread his wings and began to rise above the grasslands, the slow beats of his wings sending ripples through the dry grass like waves.
As Gavril watched, the pale sky above them split open to receive him.
“And don’t forget—trust no one.” Taliahad’s voice drifted down from the clouds. “The wolf shaman Chinua is Anagini’s servant . . . and he . . .”
“Lord Taliahad?”
This time there was no response. Gavril gazed upward, shading his eyes with one hand against the brightness. But the Heavenly Guardian had gone—leaving him alone to fathom out the mysteries of flight all by himself.
“I’ve flown on Drakhaoul wings more times than I can recall. I can do this.”
The grasslands were flat, with no hills or prominences that would have provided a useful place from which to launch himself into the air.
He closed his eyes, concentrating. He slowly extended the wings. Flapping them created a breeze that rippled through the grasses, but every movement still sent shimmers of pain through his shoulder blades and down his back. He bit his underlip and dug his nails into his palms, forcing himself to keep up the momentum. The faster the wings beat, the more intense the pain became—and still he was on the ground.
There has to be some knack to mastering this...
But the pain only increased, until it felt as if every sinew and bone was screaming in protest. He collapsed again, too close to Krasa, the great wings spread out around him like a pale blue cloak, brushing her with the feathers.
Krasa let out a terrified whinny and bolted.
“Krasa!” Gavril called after her as she galloped away, hooves stirring up a thin haze of dry earth. “Come back!” He put his fingers to his mouth and let out a piercing whistle, Semyon’s foolproof trick for recalling a recalcitrant mount. But she didn’t even hesitate, she kept going, heading back the way they had come until he could see nothing but a little cloud of dust marking her passage.
Gavril sat back on his heels, dumbfounded. His only reliable means of transport had fled, leaving him alone and without any means of escape—except for Taliahad’s gift.
Chapter 43
Gerard slept badly. In his dreams, flyers skimmed over his head, engines whirring—and he realized he was at the Emperor’s competition, searching eagerly for a glimpse of the Aiglon. Suddenly his attention was distracted by a puttering, choking sound. Glancing up, he saw the Aiglon, black smoke billowing from its engine, careering out of control. Unable to move, he watched helpless as Toran’s flyer burst into flames and plummeted to the ground.
He woke with a dry mouth and thudding heart, his mind still scarred with the images of burning, broken bodies tumbling from the craft. Stumbling out of bed, he checked his almanac for the date of the contest, circled in red ink.
Tomorrow.
Gerard closed the almanac, wishing he could rid his mind of the horrifying dream images. He had believed himself to be a rational, practical man, not given to emotional reactions. But the nightmare had shown him what he had tried to forget in his waking hours: he cared for Toran and he was desperately worried that he would volunteer to fly the Aiglon himself.
“But what can I do?” he asked himself. “He’s hundreds of leagues away. Surely Major Bauldry would never risk his cadets’ lives by letting them pilot the flyer using the new fuel.”
Dawn came early this far north and the miners’ camp was usually noisy as the men prepared breakfast and loaded up the wagons for the day’s work ahead. But although the sun was up, there was little sound of activity outside.
Opening the door of the hut, shading his eyes against the brilliance of the morning sunlight, Gerard gazed around in bewilderment, seeing only a few of the older miners stirring a pot of porridge over their campfire.
Today was the day he had agreed to show Lord Ranulph the pump at the copper mine.
“Where’s everyone gone?”
***
“My father.” Temir stared at the ground, not meeting Gerard’s gaze. “He knew Ruzhko years back, when they were boys. He’s taken his death hard.”
Gerard grabbed Temir firmly by the shoulders, forcing him to look into his face. “What are you saying, Temir?”
“He’s on his way to Kastel Nagarian with Ruzhko’s crew. He’s invoking some ancient Azhkendi law. He says he has the right to demand retribution. A life for a life. Two, in this case.”
Gerard let Temir go. “But that’s directly disobeying Lord Ranulph’s orders. He told everyone to wait until he’s spoken with Lord Gavril face-to-face.” He seized his hat and coat. “We have to go after them. We have to stop them before the situation deteriorates any further.”
Temir let out a derisive laugh. “Stop my father? Ever since he set foot on Azhkendi soil again, he’s been a changed man. He’s been itching for an excuse like this to get back at the Nagarians. You’re wasting your time, Ingenieur. He’s spoiling for a fight. And you could get hurt in the crossfire.”
Gerard rounded on him. “We’re talking of Lord Toran’s inheritance here. I’m not prepared to let an ages-old grudge spoil Lord Ranulph’s dreams.” It was only when the words were out of his mouth that he realized what he had said. So it’s true. I’ve admitted it aloud. I’m doing this for Toran. But if he couldn’t persuade Iarko to back down to protect his young master�
��s future, the cause was as good as lost.
“Temir,” he said, “give me that pistol.”
***
I thought Iarko had more respect for Lord Ranulph than to go against his orders. Gerard put his head down and rode into the keen wind that had arisen out on the moor, stirring the yellow gorse blooms. The flowers might give the impression of spring, but the wind was blowing directly from the jagged snowy peaks of the Kharzhgylls and it had a raw chill to it that made Gerard pull up the collar of his greatcoat with one hand, keeping the reins tightly gripped in the other.
The rawness of the wind matched his mood; the closer he drew to the Nagarian estate, the more his exasperation and frustration grew. How dare Iarko risk ruining Lord Ranulph’s venture and, worse still, the Arkhels’ good name?
He checked the pistol he had slipped into the holster in the saddle, but the feel of the smooth wooden grip only increased his agitation.
Temir’s warning still echoed distantly at the back of his mind. It was true; he wasn’t a fighting man and was only too aware of the danger that the pistol might misfire if he was obliged to use it. He was hoping that a well-timed shot into the air might cause enough of a distraction to diffuse a tense situation.
What makes me think they’ll pay any attention to me? They’ve been harboring this grudge over twenty years.
But then another icy gust of wind buffeted him, stirring up the cold fury that was simmering in his brain, sweeping away every other rational thought.
And beyond the whine of the wind he thought he suddenly caught the sound of distant shouts and cries coming from the forest. His sturdy bay mare slowed, sensing, perhaps, that trouble lay ahead, wrinkling her nostrils, as though sniffing the air for clues.
Am I too late?
***
As Gerard followed the carriage road into the forest, he spotted the ivy-covered crenellations of the western gatehouse tower rising above the trees. The shouts grew louder and more aggressive. Urging the bay forward, he came around a steep bend into full view of the gatehouse.