Lord of Snow and Shadows

by Sarah Ash

  Kiukiu watched Iceflower swoop silently across the snowfield and alight on the roof.

  “Here?” Kiukiu called softly to the owl. “Are you sure?” The owl did not budge.

  Now that it had come to it, Kiukiu felt an overwhelming reluctance to go any further. She was to be tested to the limits of her abilities as a Guslyar, maybe beyond. She was not sure she was good enough to fulfill the task ahead of her. And if she failed . . .

  It has to be done. And as there’s no one else to do it but me . . .

  Hitching the gusly bag under her arm, she sighed and started out toward the hut.

  Iceflower gave a sudden cry of alarm and shot up into the air.

  “What is it?” Kiukiu cried.

  From inside she could hear voices, men’s voices arguing. Lord Jaromir was evidently not alone.

  She hurried forward across the thick snow and pounded on the door with her mittened fists.

  “Let me in!”

  From within came the smash of breaking crockery. She tugged at the latch and shoved the door open.

  A man stood with his back to her; as he heard her come in, he spun around and she saw he gripped a stout stick.

  Mad, moon-gold eyes blazed at her from the firelit shadows of the hut.

  “Go away.” The voice that issued from the man’s throat was slurred and hoarse, but Kiukiu knew it for Lord Stavyor’s.

  “Oh no,” she whispered. Behind him she saw the white form of Snowcloud lying broken on the floor. “What have you done, my lord?”

  “You won’t stop me now.”

  But now that her eyes had grown more accustomed to the murky darkness of the hut, she saw another man sprawled on the floor. A flame sprang up in the dying fire, glinting blue in his tumbled hair, and she knew him.

  “Lord Gavril!” she cried, tears burning her eyes. She turned on the man with the stick, no longer afraid but angry almost beyond words. “If you’ve killed him—”

  “Silence, Guslyar.” The possessed Jaromir began to move toward Lord Gavril, lurching grotesquely, jerkily, a life-size marionette animated by an unaccustomed hand. “Let me finish what I have started.”

  Hands shaking, she dragged out the gusly from her bag.

  There was no time to think clearly. She only knew she had to weave a shroud-web of sounds for the Sending and bind Lord Stavyor’s spirit fast before leading it back toward the Ways Beyond.

  As the first sonorous notes reverberated around the hut, she saw the possessed Jaromir grip the stick tightly and lurch toward Lord Gavril again. She wanted to cry out a warning to him, but she knew she must concentrate all her efforts into her Sending Song. She struck a dark shiver of notes and saw the possessed man halt, the raised stick frozen in his hand.

  “Stop. I command you to stop!”

  Kiukiu forced her voice to resonate with each somber note she plucked from the strings. Each note trembled through her body like a fever.

  Jaromir swung round toward her. The golden eyes burned defiantly into hers. Obstinately, she plucked another long filament of notes, matching her voice to the deep, dusky threnody she was spinning. He was fighting her with every ounce of his will. She must pluck the metal strings louder, stronger, she must show she was not afraid. Now each time she touched the strings, the harsh metal bit into her fingers; each note was agony.

  “Stop . . .” The stick dropped from Jaromir’s fingers to the floor. He sagged—and fell to his knees. “No—Kiukirilya—let me stay with my son—”

  Kiukiu felt herself slowly moving toward the dark heart of her Sending Song.

  “Come with me, Lord Stavyor.”

  Now she hardly felt the pain of the lacerating strings as the notes throbbed louder. The shadows in the hut wavered, merging together into one darkness as the doorway to the Ways Beyond began to open.

  “No . . .” Jaromir’s body suddenly slumped onto the floor as she drew Lord Stavyor’s spirit-wraith out.

  “With me, my lord.” She was strong now; her will was stronger than his. She had bound him—and as the portal opened in front of them, she led him toward it.

  There, as she had seen it before, was the path winding away into the infinite beyond. The path glimmered in the darkness. Her song became calm, each note a step farther along the path away from life.

  “Take care, child, for he will fight you every step of the way . . .”

  She glanced behind her. She was leading, and he was slowly following. The fierce gold of his eyes dimmed as they passed farther away from the shadowdoor. He moved like one walking in a dream, his gaze distant, sad.

  She sensed there was no fight left in him, only a quiet resignation.

  It was so quiet here. And she was so tired. She longed to rest, to let the calm embrace her, lulling away the hurts and heartbreak of the past months. A soft light, gilded spring sunlight, filtered down through silver-green leaves.

  When she looked around again, he had drifted silently away.

  And there was something she had to remember to do.

  But now it didn’t seem to matter that much. It was so peaceful here, so very, very peaceful. . . .

  CHAPTER 30

  The fire had almost burned down to cinders, and the mountain hut was dark and chill.

  Gavril lifted his head—and cursed as the pain hit him.

  He stared dazedly around him, wondering if he were still unconscious or hallucinating. Jaromir lay on the floor as if dead; beside him was the still, broken body of Snowcloud. And slumped in a corner, a young woman sat, fair head drooping, fingers on the strings of a large wooden zither.

  “Kiukiu?”

  He moved closer, staring in disbelief. Was he seeing ghosts everywhere? She was so like dead Kiukiu . . .

  He put out one hand and gently touched her shoulder. She murmured something inaudible but did not wake.

  His fingers touched her fair hair; it was the same rich shade as hers, the ripe gold of summer wheat. Yes, it was she, he was certain of it, and felt his heart twist in his chest, torn between joy and anguish.

  “Kiukiu!” He spoke her name louder. She seemed locked in some kind of trance, deeper than sleep. He pinched her cheek. Still no response.

  “Kiukiu, come back.” He knelt before her, stroking her face. “It’s me. Gavril. Can you hear me?”

  Her lashes fluttered, and she opened her eyes, gazing into his as if she had been very far away.

  “My lord?” she murmured. “You’re safe. You’re safe now. I’ve sent him back.”

  An extraordinary confusion of feelings swept through him. She was alive. And he was more glad than he had ever imagined he could be to see her. He forgot the headache, forgot his sadness for Snowcloud. He wanted to hug her.

  “We thought you were dead,” he stammered out. “We thought the steppe wolves had got you.”

  “And I thought you were dead when I saw you lying there and I was so angry. . . .” Now the words came tumbling out.

  There came a groan from beside the dying fire. Jaromir slowly got to his feet, steadying himself with one hand. Gavril glanced around, fearing to see the golden blaze of spirit possession distorting his face, but Jaromir’s eyes were dark again, dulled with confusion.

  “What . . . happened here?” Jaromir swayed a little on his feet and then sat down.

  “What do you remember?” Gavril asked warily.

  “White wings . . . the owl. Then . . . nothing. There’s a darkness in my mind. Like fog. And somewhere someone was singing. Slow and sad . . .”

  “That would have been me,” Kiukiu said.

  Jaromir lifted his head and stared at her through narrowed lids.

  “And who are you?”

  “Kiukirilya, Malkh’s daughter,” she said in a small steady voice.

  “Malkh?” he repeated. “Malkh, who betrayed my father?”

  “Is that what they told you, my lord?”

  Gavril, sensing tension, moved to put more wood on the embers of the fire.

  “That’s what Abbot Yephimy t
old me. Volkh’s men caught your father in the grounds of Kastel Drakhaon and tortured him. He broke and revealed everything to Volkh: the plans my father had drawn up to take Kastel Drakhaon, the night of the attack—everything.”

  Kiukiu let out a small, tired sigh. “I never knew my father.”

  “You’re a Guslyar?” Jaromir said, pointing to the instrument on her lap.

  She nodded.

  “A Guslyar?” Gavril repeated under his breath, remembering his father’s will. Volkh had believed in the power of the Guslyars.

  Jaromir went over to Kiukiu and touched the strings which gave off a soft shimmer of sound. “They told me you were all dead.”

  “My grandmother is still alive.”

  “What, old Malusha?” He sat down beside her and Gavril saw his face suddenly alight, eager. “I used to listen to her tales when I was little. How my mother loved her songs! Malusha was such a wonderful singer—and the stories she spun—” He broke off as if the memory was suddenly too painful to continue.

  Kiukiu a Guslyar . . . Gavril still stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. Was there a hope, the faintest of hopes, that she could help him rid himself of the Drakhaoul?

  “How did you find us?” Jaromir asked.

  “We followed Snowcloud.”

  “We? Your grandmother’s here?”

  “No.” A look of weariness suddenly washed across Kiukiu’s face. “Lady Iceflower. Snowcloud’s mate . . .” Her head drooped forward again.

  Gavril started up from the fireside.

  “Is she all right?”

  Jaromir leaned forward to listen to her breathing. “I think she’s fallen asleep.”

  Gavril and Jaromir sat opposite each other beside the fire. Silence hung in the air between them, an awkward, uncomfortable silence that Gavril was in no mood to break. He had wrapped Snowcloud’s stiffening body in a piece of cloth and Lady Iceflower stood a silent, respectful guard over it. Kiukiu lay sleeping, strands of her wheat-gold hair spilling out from beneath the blankets they had tucked around her.

  Outside, the snow had begun to fall again.

  “In Tielen they have a saying, ‘Sleeping like the dead,’” Jaromir said softly.

  “She traveled a dangerous road to send your father’s spirit back,” Gavril said. “And a painful one. Did you see her fingertips? The strings were wet with blood.”

  The silence fell again between them, cold as the empty snow wastes outside.

  “Your owl,” Jaromir said eventually. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It was no longer Snowcloud,” Gavril said abruptly. “Your father’s spirit had sent it mad.”

  “In the morning we can make a cairn. There’s no earth up here for burying.”

  Gavril nodded. He was still staring at the sleeping Kiukiu. He had not forgotten the heady rush of emotion that had overwhelmed him on seeing her. He had called it gladness, joy, relief at knowing she was alive. But deep inside him, a small, insidious voice whispered that he was deceiving himself. There had also been the stirrings of some stronger, darker feeling.

  He hastily turned his head away. He had promised his heart to Astasia Orlova. But now Astasia seemed no more than a distant, impossible dream. When he tried to remember her face, her voice, he saw only a shadow girl, insubstantial and unreal.

  He ventured a glance at Jaromir, who sat hunched, staring into the fire, his burned arm and hand hanging uselessly. Jaromir Arkhel had suffered enough at the hands of his father’s clan. If Kiukiu could lay Volkh’s ghost, the blood curse would be lifted from both their heads—without another drop of blood being shed.

  Hope glimmered, a tiny crocus flame of clear light, in the darkness.

  And then he remembered the power and fury of the revenant, the way it had flung him across the tower room in Kastel Drakhaon. If it could attack him with such violence, what would it do to Kiukiu?

  No, he had no right to ask her to risk her life, her sanity—her very soul itself—on such a dangerous mission.

  He would have to find some other way.

  “I’ve never seen anyone heal so fast,” Jaromir said in puzzled tones as he examined Gavril’s shoulder. “Is it your Drakhaon blood?”

  Gavril was testing how far he could move his right arm before the first telltale warning twinge told him to stop. “Only a few days,” he said, flexing his fingers, “and look!” He was astonished at the speed at which the damaged bone and sinews were knitting back together. Perhaps there was some advantage to his blood inheritance after all.

  Kiukiu sat suddenly bolt upright, the blankets dropping from around her.

  “Harim!” she said. She looked as if she was still half-asleep, her hair all mussed, her eyes unfocused. Then she saw Gavril. “How long have I been asleep?”

  “Who is Harim?” asked Gavril.

  “My grandmother’s pony. I left him in a gully before I started the climb up here.” Clutching a blanket around her, she wandered over to the shutter and opened it. “Look. It’s been snowing all night.”

  “If he’s out of the wind, he’ll weather the storm. Those moorland ponies are very tough,” Jaromir said.

  “But I promised her I’d take good care of him—”

  “You’ll have to wait till the snow stops. Have some porridge. You must be hungry.”

  Jaromir handed her a bowl of porridge sweetened with a spoonful of heather honey; she bolted it down enthusiastically.

  There was something different about her, Gavril thought, watching her . . . an almost indefinable quality of . . . strength. Yes, there was strength but also a new vulnerability. And her face had changed; the softness of early youth had gone. He wished he had a pen and paper to capture what he saw.

  “Still no word,” Jaromir said edgily.

  “It’s been snowing all night,” said Gavril.

  “You must call your druzhina. Summon them. I can’t bear to stay here and not know how she is.”

  “And I told you, I don’t know how.”

  Kiukiu had been glancing from one to the other, evidently puzzled by the exchange.

  “What’s happened while I’ve been away?” she asked.

  “Lilias,” said Gavril. “Michailo helped her escape—and shot Kostya.”

  Kiukiu’s gray-blue eyes widened. “The Bogatyr’s dead?”

  “We don’t know for sure,” Gavril said uneasily.

  Jaromir rose to his feet in one sudden restless movement, knocking over his stool. “If they won’t come to me, then I’ll have to go to them.”

  “And they’ll kill you,” Gavril said. “At least up here you have the advantage. When they come for me, you can bargain more effectively.”

  “But right now we have no dialogue, no bargaining, nothing!” Jaromir struck his sound fist on the table, making the porridge bowls rattle.

  “Then I’ll try,” Gavril said grudgingly. He tried to empty his mind, listening intently for the distant murmur of voices he had first heard the night of the blood oath.

  “We will always know where you are.”

  But all he could hear was silence, a rushing, empty silence, like the wind-stirred darkness at night.

  “It’s no good,” he said, shaking his head. “I haven’t been trained how to do it. Or if Kostya is dead, the link is broken.”

  “Can I help, my lord?” Kiukiu hefted up the gusly onto her lap. She plucked a low note or two and he saw her wince as her scarred fingertips brushed the cruel metal strings. Before he knew what he was doing, he had reached across and gently covered her injured fingers with his own. He saw her glance up at him, startled.

  “You’re hurt,” he said. “You must let your fingers heal first. Lord Jaromir has a medicinal salve that the monks make. It might help.”

  Jaromir nodded and brought over the earthenware pot. As he opened it, the soothing aromatic scented the air, sharp as witch hazel, sweet as mallow.

  “It smells like the moorlands in spring,” she said, taking in a deep breath.

  “It smells
sweet,” Jaromir said, “but it stings like hell.”

  Cautiously, she dipped her fingertips into the green salve and grimaced as it began to bite. She shook her fingers furiously as if to shake the pain away.

  “Try again,” Jaromir said to Gavril in a low voice.

  Gavril went to the door of the hut and opened the top half, gazing far out across the cloud-shrouded valley.

  “Kostya,” he called silently to the bleak mountains. “Jushko! Can you hear me? It’s me, Gavril. I’m trapped, injured—and I need your help.”

  This time he thought he sensed a faint answer, faint and ominous as the distant flicker of winter lightning. Had he made contact at last? He waited, but there was nothing else.

  He turned his back on the winter wastes and closed the door.

  “Well?” demanded Jaromir.

  “There was something there, this time . . . but so far off, I couldn’t tell if it worked.”

  A sudden violent gust of wind made the whole hut shudder. The door blew inward, banging on its hinges. Gavril whirled around. The sky had gone leaden dark, and the temperature plummeted. He hurried to the doorway, gazing out.

  The wind came shrieking back up the valley, wild as a tornado, tearing at the roof of the hut as if it meant to wrench it apart.

  Overhead turbulent stormclouds churned, gray, shot through with sudden flickers of violent white lightning. Claps of thunder made the ground shake beneath his feet.

  “Where did this storm come from?” cried Jaromir above the din.

  “This is no ordinary storm!” Gavril shouted back, gripping the doorframe to keep upright.

  Jagged hailstones came pelting down, slivers of ice as sharp as broken glass. The wind spun around the hut again, a high, menacing whine.

  He had called—and something had answered him, some dark, savage force of winter. . . .

  “Get back inside!” He pushed Jaromir back into the hut.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Jaromir twisted around, eyes blazing.

  Kiukiu stood, white-faced in the hut, clutching her gusly to her. Lady Iceflower perched on her shoulder.