Lord of Snow and Shadows

by Sarah Ash

  Lord Gavril will protect me . . .

  But Lord Gavril needed her protection so much more than she needed his. At this very moment, an assassin might be creeping along the underground passage, making for his bedchamber to lie in wait for him—

  Thoughts drifted wildly about her brain like little flurries of snow.

  Think! Think!

  As she drew closer to the kastel, she could hear the serene chanting of the monks wafting out into the night. Lord Gavril was attending the ceremony of exorcism in the hall. There was no way she could attract his attention without alerting the druzhina or disrupting the ceremony.

  “Once I am gone, who will protect my son?”

  Suddenly she knew what she must do. She must stop the exorcism ceremony. She must find a way to keep Lord Volkh’s spirit-wraith in this world, where it could watch over Lord Gavril.

  Candles had been lit all around the Great Hall; the darkness trembled with their golden flames.

  Kiukiu balanced on tiptoe in the bramble-tangled ruins of the frostbound garden, nose just above the level of the stone sill, peering in.

  Abbot Yephimy stood in the center of the hall, at the very place where Lord Volkh had been found dying. But Kiukiu saw that the abbot of the forest monastery was not some withered elderly cleric, as she had imagined, but a robust, broad-shouldered man in middle years who, in spite of his gray robes and long beard, looked more like a warrior than a monk.

  Lord Gavril sat at the table on the dais beneath his father’s portrait, watching. His face was somber, shadowed, unreadable. Kiukiu’s heart ached for him. She had caused him so much trouble—

  One of the monks brought over a tall tripod on which rested a green bronze dish, smeared gray inside with powdered ashes. Abbot Yephimy placed the likeness of a man shaped out of yellow beeswax into the bronze dish, resting it on a bed of incense embers.

  “Hear me, Volkh, Lord Nagarian. We have sung the Chants of Valediction. When this waxen body is consumed, you will pass beyond the bournes of this world and never return.”

  The monks began to sing again, their chant a deep droning resonance.

  “Kiukirilya.” The spirit-wraith’s voice echoed faintly in her mind. The drifting smoke swirled more thickly. And in the smoke Kiukiu saw a shadowshape was forming, raising insubstantial hands toward her, clasped in a pleading gesture. “They mean to send me back. Stop them.”

  “How?” she cried aloud. “I don’t know how!”

  The wax figure had begun to glow on the incense embers, more golden than the myriad candleflames glittering in the hall.

  “Hurry . . .” The voice was fading fast, a dying whisper.

  Grasping hold of the creeper, Kiukiu pulled herself up and banged hard on the window.

  “Help! Help!” she cried, clinging on till the wiry vine stem burned her palms.

  Inside, the singing faltered, heads turned toward her, monks, druzhina, even the abbot. She saw consternation in their faces, and then outrage. The Bogatyr came hurrying across to the window. She let go and dropped to the ground just as he tugged the window catch open and leaned out. The shimmering candlelight wavered and dimmed as the flames shivered in the blast of cold air.

  “What in hell’s name—”

  “Intruder!” she gasped, waving her hand vaguely toward the garden. “Intruder in the grounds!”

  “Search the gardens!” the Bogatyr shouted.

  Druzhina came running, stumbling over each other in their haste, seizing torches, crowding to the window. In the commotion, Kiukiu saw the tripod knocked to the floor, the ashes spilled over the glowing wax figure. And then she was thrown to the ground as the men jumped down into the rosebushes and went running down the gardens.

  The Bogatyr caught hold of Kiukiu and dragged her up into the hall. “Where, girl? And what were you doing out there alone at night?”

  But behind him she saw a stormcloud of bitter incense smoke hovering like a milling bee swarm above Abbot Yephimy’s head. “Look, Bogatyr.”

  “Yephimy!” Lord Volkh’s voice trembled like rolling thunder through the kastel. “Leave this place. Go back to Saint Sergius.”

  The Bogatyr let go of her. His face had turned pale.

  “Lord Volkh,” he whispered.

  A wind gusted through the hall, a chill charnel wind, dry as dust. Candles crashed to the floor.

  “Enough!” Yephimy struck his abbot’s staff three times on the echoing stone floor.

  “Leave me be, Yephimy.”

  Kiukiu saw that Lord Gavril had risen from his chair, was standing staring as the swirling incense smoke became the shadow of a man, tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair silver-brindled with age.

  Yephimy raised his staff high above his head. “Begone, Volkh!”

  The charnel wind swirled, howling about the hall. The central lantern swung wildly, jerkily, as on a storm-tossed ship. The monks cowered back, calling the sacred name of the Lord God to preserve them from harm.

  “Go!” commanded Yephimy in the blast.

  Lord Gavril suddenly shouted out over the roaring of the wind. He launched himself forward, throwing himself on top of Yephimy, bearing the abbot to the ground.

  And the madly swinging, jerking lantern snapped from its chain and came whistling down to crash where Yephimy had been standing.

  Stillness after storm. No whirlwind, no turbulent voice shrieking. But laughter. Laughter as dry as wind-scattered pyre ashes.

  And like cinders blown on the wind, the echoes dispersed, disintegrated . . . and disappeared.

  CHAPTER 14

  The exorcism had failed.

  Gavril stood in the Great Hall, staring numbly at the marks of ash and melted wax staining the tiled floor.

  All his plans had centered on laying his father’s spirit to rest. But instead of fading peacefully away, the wraith had only grown stronger, more wrathful, than before.

  Gavril sank down onto the dais and covered his face with his hands. How could it all have gone so wrong?

  The monks were purifying the hall, burning sweet angelsmoke in their censers and sprinkling the air with holy water.

  “Lord Gavril.”

  Gavril looked up to see Abbot Yephimy.

  “You saved my life.”

  Gavril nodded, still too heartsick to speak.

  “Your father’s spirit-wraith is far more powerful than I had anticipated.”

  “Was that . . . abomination really my father?” At last Gavril found words, stumbling words to articulate the bitterness choking him.

  Yephimy nodded. “I have observed this phenomenon before. The wraith becomes the embodiment of the dying person’s last conscious thoughts. And a violent death produces a violent wraith, obsessed with its own fury, obsessed with revenge. And now I fear . . .”

  “Now?”

  “I fear,” the abbot said grimly, “that I have unleashed a force of elemental rage. Until last night the wraith was trapped within the boundaries of the place where it died, unable to roam abroad. But now it has burst free. It is too strong for me to exorcise.”

  “My father was a cruel man. I wish I were not his son.” Gavril had blurted the words out before he had thought what he was saying. But they were words from the heart. Why should he go on pretending?

  “My lord—” the abbot began.

  “What’s all this commotion?” Lilias swept into the hall, with Dysis bobbing anxiously at her heels. “Are we being raided? Why are there men swarming about the grounds?”

  “Madame, please don’t excite yourself,” begged Dysis. “Think of the baby.”

  “One of the servants thought she saw an intruder in the garden,” Kostya said.

  “And which servant was that?”

  “Kiukiu.”

  Kiukiu? In all the commotion he had not even noticed who had interrupted the ceremony; he had only heard a girl’s voice screaming outside.

  “And have you found anyone so far?”

  “No,” said Kostya brusquely.

  Lilias
let out a little laugh of disdain. “I could have told you not to waste your time! That girl is soft in the head. She’s scared of her own shadow.”

  “We can’t afford to ignore any report of intruders—however unlikely.”

  “Indeed,” Lilias said with a cryptic smile. “Vigilant at all times, Bogatyr. It would be scandalous for a second tragedy to follow so fast on the first.”

  Kostya scowled at her. “Shouldn’t you be resting, madame?”

  “How can I rest with this constant noise? And all because one silly girl was scared by a shadow—” Lilias broke off, grimacing as she pressed one hand to the side of her belly.

  “Madame,” said Dysis, reaching out to support her as she swayed on her feet, “the Bogatyr is right. You should be resting.”

  “If any harm comes to my baby because of you and your investigations—”

  “Please, madame. Come and lie down. I’ll make you a nice, calming tisane.”

  Gavril watched Dysis lead Lilias away. Lilias had not left her rooms for days, not since the reading of the will. Why had she come now, so near her time? Why had she not sent Dysis to find out what was happening? Of course, it could just be the whim of a pregnant woman . . .

  The daylight seemed to dim—and glancing at the tall windows, he saw little flecks, white as drifting petals, slowly spiraling down from the leaden sky.

  “Snow,” he whispered, transfixed. He could only remember one winter snowfall in temperate Smarna, and that had been many years ago. “It’s started to snow.”

  Snow swirled around the Kalika Tower, great gusts of flakes billowing like foam-crested breakers, whipped up by a bitter, howling stormwind.

  Gavril stood staring at the chill white turbulence. The storm had raged since morning and showed no sign of abating. He sensed a dark, brooding spirit stirring the eddies of snow, a bitter anger animating the blizzard that battered the walls of the kastel.

  “Father,” he said aloud. He flung open the stained-glass window and gripping the sill, leaned out into the blast. “Father!” he yelled into the screaming of the wind. “Make it stop! Tell me what you want!”

  Freezing snow spattered him, numbing his face and hands, soaking his windblown hair.

  A sudden gust caught him, flung him back, propelling him right across the floor. The tower trembled and the window blew inward, colored glass shattering against the stone wall.

  Dazed, he opened his eyes. A tall figure, dark as a thundercloud, towered above him, filling the room, wreathed by whirling snow.

  “You know what you must do.” A voice crackling with ice and thunder made the whole room tremble.

  “There has to be another way,” Gavril said stubbornly.

  A buffet of wind, sharp as a blow to the head, slammed him back hard against the wall.

  “Why?” Gavril whispered, breathless and bruised. “Why treat me this way? You’re my father.” Dizzy, ears ringing, he found himself sliding back down to the floor, unable to keep upright.

  The fierce assault of the blizzard suddenly ceased. From the hovering snowshadow blotting out the daylight, Gavril heard a slow, sad exhalation, like the eerie whine of the wind over the frozen moors. And on the exhalation came words, weary, desolate words that made his heart ache.

  “So . . . cold . . . So . . . very . . . tired . . . Help me, Gavril. Help me end it. Set me free.”

  Gavril felt a sudden stab of pity. There was still a trace of humanity in this cold, wrathful Snow Spirit.

  “I want to help you. But there has to be some other way. I promise you I will do all in my power to bring Jaromir Arkhel to justice, but . . . don’t ask me to kill him.”

  “There is no other way.”

  Volkh’s shadow collapsed inward into a spinning cone of cloud and snow. Gavril was hurled backward as the stormshadow burst out of the tower room on a trail of shrieking wind.

  “My lord! My lord!” There came a frantic hammering on the door. Gavril crawled over and pulled himself up to his feet, trying to turn the great iron key. As the door opened, he collapsed onto his knees.

  Kostya caught hold of him and helped him into a chair.

  “You’ve taken quite a beating there, lad,” he said. He took out his handkerchief and, scooping up a handful of melting snow, made a compress and pressed it to Gavril’s forehead. Gavril winced.

  “Tsk, tsk.” Kostya was clicking his teeth in disgust as he stared at the chaos the wraith had caused in the study. Books had been torn from the shelves and tossed haphazardly down; now they lay in disarray, their spines broken, torn pages fluttering in the draft from the shattered window.

  “And this room was always your father’s favorite,” Kostya said, almost to himself, absently gathering the scattered papers.

  “Whatever was here just now seems to bear little resemblance to my father.”

  “Didn’t I warn you?” Kostya said with a laconic shrug. “The wraith is out of control. Fury drives it, makes it strong. Soon it will not even remember its name, only its hunger for revenge—and ultimate oblivion.”

  Gavril caught sight among the snow-wet papers in Kostya’s hands of his sketches of Astasia. He sprang up from the chair.

  “Give me those,” he said, grabbing them from Kostya’s hands. They were all but ruined. The inks had run and blotched, distorting the image of her face to a nightmare caricature, a leering succubus with eyes weirdly blurred and shadowed, mouth dribbling leaks of dark liquid. Choked, he cast them down on the desk. Even his most cherished memories had been violated.

  “Lord Drakhaon! Bogatyr!” Now there were more voices outside. One of the druzhina came running up the stairs. “Visitors. From Azhgorod.”

  “In this weather?” Kostya said.

  “It’s Lord Stoyan,” the man stammered. “There’s news. Bad news.”

  “The Drakhaon!” barked Kostya as Gavril came into the hall.

  A richly dressed man, in robes of jewel-dark brocades trimmed with fur, stood with his retainers, who were stamping snow from their boots and warming their hands at the fire. There was a rancid smell of snow-wet fur drying. When they saw Gavril, all went down on one knee, clutching their fur-rimmed hats to their breasts.

  “Lord Boris Stoyan,” Kostya announced. “Head of the Council of Boyars in Azhgorod.”

  Lord Stoyan, a heavyset man with a flowing brown beard, came forward and bowed, the heavy gold chain about his neck clinking as he lowered his head.

  “My lord, we had hoped to welcome you to the council in Azhgorod after the mourning for your father was over,” the boyar said. His voice was deep, rich as a good vintage wine. “But we have been forced to intrude by events . . . very grave events.”

  “You must be chilled to the bone, my lord, after such a journey,” Gavril said. “Spiced ale for our guests,” he called to Sosia.

  Kostya conducted Lord Stoyan to the great polished table on the dais and pulled back the carved chair beneath Lord Volkh’s portrait for Gavril.

  “Well?” Kostya demanded brusquely, taking his place at Gavril’s right hand.

  “There’s been what I can only describe as . . . a massacre.”

  “What d’you mean, a massacre?” Kostya said, suddenly all attention.

  “Last night. In the stronghold of Kharsk—which has always been loyal to your House, Lord Drakhaon.”

  “Are you implying there’s an Arkhel connection?” said Kostya, leaning forward, his eyes bright and fierce.

  Lord Stoyan shrugged expansively, his gold chain clinking as he moved.

  “Some say it was a pack of wolves, others say it was mercenaries, secret Arkhel sympathizers, maybe. I think you should come and see for yourself, my lord. If there’s a band of renegades at large, we need to find and destroy them.”

  “Casualties?” Kostya asked.

  “Too many to count. Mostly women and children.”

  Gavril had sat listening in silence, wondering what was expected of him.

  “Hot spiced ale, my lords,” announced Sosia. She approached t
he dais, Ninusha following. Distracted, Gavril watched Ninusha silently flirt with Lord Stoyan’s retainers as she poured ale for them, darting little provocative glances at them from under thick, black lashes.

  “So where is Kharsk?” he asked as the men drank.

  One of the retainers unrolled a creased vellum map on the table before him. It was crudely painted in faded inks, with childlike kastels drawn to represent towns. It showed none of the artistry of his father’s map in the Kalika Tower.

  “A day’s journey from here to the east of Azhgorod.” Lord Stoyan pointed. “Across the shores of Lake Ilmin.”

  There lay the city of Azhgorod, bristling with spires and towers. And at the far end of long Lake Ilmin, Gavril saw clearly outlined the southern mountain pass that led down into Muscobar.

  “The people of Kharsk have begged for your protection, my lord.”

  Gavril turned to Kostya.

  “Then we must go to Kharsk—and straightaway.”

  Gavril went racing up the stairs. After last night’s vigil, he had felt weary and dispirited but the thought of freedom—of a kind—had given him new energy.

  He flung open the doors of his bedchamber.

  “My lord,” a voice whispered.

  “Kiukiu?” He stopped on the threshold, puzzled. The room looked empty.

  The great hunting tapestry that concealed the secret door moved, and Kiukiu crept out. Her hair was disheveled, escaping in wisps from her plaits, and her eyes were huge, dark-shadowed in a wan face. She looked as if she too had not slept all night.

  “What were you doing behind the tapestry?”

  “Keeping you safe, my lord.” She stumbled a little and he caught hold of her arm, guiding her toward a chair.

  “Or hiding from Kostya?”

  “He told you?”

  “You saw an intruder in the grounds. The druzhina searched till dawn. They found no one.”

  “But were they looking in the right places?” she asked, distractedly trying to weave the escaping wisps of hair back in place.