Lord of Snow and Shadows

by Sarah Ash

  “How did you—” Gavril’s mind still whirled with the rush of air, the throbbing heartbeat of wings.

  Jaromir gestured briefly toward the tapestry that concealed the door to the deserted East Wing. “I thought it better your druzhina didn’t see me. After all, they still believe you killed me up on the mountain,” he added with a wry, twisted smile.

  Jaromir Arkhel. Gavril gazed at the man Eugene of Tielen had elected to depose him, trying to quell the simmering bitterness in his heart.

  “What time is it?” He had fallen asleep in his traveling clothes. Servants must have come in to light the fire, but no one had woken him.

  “About seven in the morning.”

  “Seven already?” Gavril went over to the washbasin and poured in water, plunging his face into the bowl, coming up dripping, gasping at the icy shock of the cold. He had to test Jaromir. “Jaromir, Azhkendir is under attack.” He made a play of fumbling for a towel, closely watching Jaromir’s reactions. “Eugene of Tielen has launched an invasion across the ice.”

  “Eugene?”

  A look of anguished concern passed across Jaromir’s face.

  “No, no,” Gavril heard Jaromir mutter, almost to himself, “surely he wouldn’t venture so much just for my sake, surely not . . .”

  “For your sake?”

  If Jaromir was play-acting, then he was extraordinarily gifted.

  “Eugene has been my mentor, my protector, my friend, ever since Yephimy smuggled me out of Azhkendir. I have spent the last years in Tielen at his court. I—I owe him everything.”

  “And yet this man is holding my mother hostage.” Gavril was unable to hide the rawness of betrayal in his voice. “My mother, Jaromir.”

  Jaromir looked blankly at him.

  “Lilias has some kind of voice transference device in her rooms.”

  “One of Linnaius’ inventions? The Vox Aethyria?”

  Gavril shrugged. “All I know is that a disembodied voice has been telling me that my mother is Eugene’s prisoner and will be executed unless I do exactly as I am instructed.”

  “And the instructions?”

  “Read this.” Gavril thrust Eugene’s letter into Jaromir’s hand. “I am ordered to submit myself to the disabling effects of Doctor Kazimir’s elixir. And hand over the governing of Azhkendir to you.”

  Jaromir looked up from the paper, his eyes clouded.

  “That was Eugene’s original intention, yes, for me to replace Volkh. But that was before he—or I—was aware you were alive.”

  Gavril said nothing.

  Jaromir moved closer to him.

  “You’ve got to believe me, Gavril,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Yes, I knew about the Vox Aethyria. But this invasion plan, the threats to your mother, this is all news to me.”

  Anger began to smolder in Gavril’s mind, dark as distant smoke.

  “You should never have come back,” he said quietly. “If there’s to be a game of hostages, then you’re in grave danger.”

  “So you’d use me to bargain for your mother’s life?” Jaromir said with bitter amusement.

  “I’d rather have you as my ally, believe me, Jaro. But if you mean so much to Eugene—”

  “I came to plead for Lilias and my son.” Jaromir gave a dry little laugh. “And I find myself a hostage.”

  Gavril gazed at him, torn between his fear for Elysia and his reluctance to betray the enemy who had become his friend. He would be no better than the Tielens if he stooped to the same tactic of threat-making and hostage-taking.

  “There has to be another way,” he said. “Wait for me here. I won’t be long.”

  The acrid smell of Sosia’s steeping wound-herbs made Gavril’s eyes sting as he entered Kostya’s sickroom.

  “Kostya,” Gavril said, leaning close to the old soldier’s pillow. “I need your advice.”

  “What?” Kostya jerked awake. A hint of a smile curled his lips. “And when did my lord ever need to consult old Kostya about anything?”

  “We’re at war,” Gavril said. “Eugene of Tielen has invaded us from the west.”

  “War, eh?” A wolfish gleam lit Kostya’s eyes, and he struggled to sit up. Gavril leaned forward to help him, plumping pillows at his back.

  “They’ve taken my mother hostage. They say they’ll kill her if we retaliate.” Gavril tried to keep the rising sense of desperation from his voice. “What do I do, Kostya?”

  Jushko appeared in the doorway.

  “Map, Jushko!” ordered Kostya with a spark of his old vitality.

  Jushko unrolled a painted leather map on the bedclothes.

  “They’re coming across the ice here.” He traced the route with a chipped and grimy fingernail. “And making for Muscobar.”

  Kostya forced himself up, irritably shaking off Jushko’s hand when he tried to help him. For a while he stared at the map, tunelessly humming under his breath.

  “Well?” Gavril said, unable to control the growing tension any longer.

  Kostya turned to him. He was smiling again, a cruel, triumphant smile.

  “Eugene’s scared of you, lad.”

  “Scared? Of me?” Gavril echoed incredulously. “Of one man?”

  “Why else take your mother hostage?” Kostya gave a dry chuckle that degenerated into a wracking cough. Jushko eased him back onto the pillows and gave him a sip of water.

  “So my hands are tied,” Gavril said, choked with frustration, “and I must stand by and watch Eugene capture Azhkendir—then Muscobar?” And he had hoped—against hope—that Kostya would have devised some plan, some subtle military strategy to rescue Elysia.

  “Did I say that?” Kostya rasped. “You must use his fear of you—and what you might do—against him.”

  “But at the slightest sign of retaliation, he says he’ll have her killed.”

  “There are other ways to retaliate.” The same cruel glint still lit Kostya’s fever-dry eyes. “While he and his armies are away from Tielen, who is keeping his palace and his family safe?”

  Gavril stared at him.

  “Surely he’ll have left his home well-guarded. Surely . . .” And then as the implications of Kostya’s words began to make sense, he fell silent, thinking, calculating.

  There might yet be a way . . .

  “Jushko, I want the Tielens shadowed all the way through Azhkendir.” Kostya was giving his orders. “I want reports of their movements at all hours of the day and night.”

  “Bogatyr!” Jushko saluted with alacrity.

  “Warn them—keep out of sight at all times. We have the advantage here; we know the terrain. These Tielen boys’re going to have a hard and dangerous climb through the southern ranges before they come down into Muscobar.”

  “And Lilias Arbelian?” Gavril interrupted.

  “We’re still looking,” Jushko said defensively.

  “I want more search parties out there,” Gavril said. “I want Lilias Arbelian. See to it, Jushko.”

  “And Jushko,” Kostya added, “pass me down my crossbow.”

  Jushko glanced questioningly at the old warrior, but Kostya gave him such a furious glare that he went to the wall and took down the weapon from where it hung.

  “Don’t forget the bolts,” Kostya said, running his hand lovingly along the shaft of the crossbow. “If the Tielens attack, I want to be ready for ’em.”

  “You took your time!” Jaromir leapt up as Gavril came back into his bedchamber.

  “There’s no news. They’re still searching for her.”

  “Listen, Gavril.” Jaromir put his hand on Gavril’s shoulder, his touch warm, reassuring. “All I want is Lilias and the child.”

  “Even though she fled, leaving you to the mercy of my druzhina?”

  “She used me. I see that now. But she’s also the mother of my son. My heir.”

  “And Eugene’s plans for Azhkendir?”

  Gavril saw Jaromir shiver. “Azhkendir has too many ghosts. If I could take them away with me, far from here,
if we could start a new life together in some distant country, Francia, maybe, or Allemande, where no one knew or cared about Arkhels or Nagarians—”

  “You want me to pardon her?”

  “If you don’t, your druzhina will pursue us wherever we go, and the bloodfeud will never be over.”

  Gavril gazed at Jaromir, wondering how he could still feel so strongly for treacherous Lilias. Surely he deserved better.

  “You know I’d do anything to ensure your safety,” he said. “I owe you my life. But Lilias . . .”

  “Just find her, Gavril. Then I’ll go speak to Eugene. I can make him release your mother. He will do anything for me.”

  Gavril nodded, wanting to believe Jaromir—yet doubting that Eugene’s imperial ambitions could be swayed by the pleas of one man.

  “Lord Drakhaon!”

  Jaromir glanced round uneasily as there came a rap at the door.

  “Wait!” Gavril called out. What new complication could it be this time? He turned back to Jaromir. “It’s not safe for you in Kastel Drakhaon. Go back to the monastery. I’ll get word to you when—”

  Jaromir shook his head. “I want to be here for her. I’ll be in the East Wing if you need me. I’ve hidden there enough times before.” He slipped beneath the gilded tapestry, and Gavril heard the concealed door click shut behind him just as his own door opened and one of the druzhina marched in.

  “Did I give you permission to enter?” Gavril turned on him, his heart beating overfast. A few seconds sooner and Jaromir would have been discovered. . . .

  “Sorry, my lord.” Beneath the overlarge helmet, Gavril saw the face of the youngest of the druzhina, Semyon, freckled cheeks flushed red with mortification.

  “What is so urgent that you have to enter without permission?”

  “Doctor Kazimir sends his compliments, Lord Drakhaon. He’s ready for you in the Kalika Tower.”

  The fugitives huddled around the meager fire in the brazier, rubbing their frozen fingers together over the blaze.

  “How long are we to keep skulking here in this hovel?” Lilias demanded. She was cradling a fretful Artamon—but not too close, as he was badly in need of a bath and clean clothes.

  “Till it’s safe,” Michailo said, scowling.

  Artamon started to fret. Lilias promptly handed him over to Dysis, who tried to distract him, jiggling him up and down on her shoulder.

  “You need to talk terms with Kastel Drakhaon,” she said, impatient. She had misjudged him. He had seemed so full of potential, but now she was beginning to think he had not a single cunning thought in his head; he was all muscle and ill temper. She would have to do the thinking for all of them.

  “What? And give away our whereabouts? I think not. Where’s Grisha got to? He’s been gone too long.”

  “And there are bugs in our bedding,” she said, willing herself not to scratch. There were angry red bites on her arms and legs. “I need clean clothes. For the baby.”

  “You could have had clean clothes if you’d stayed,” he said sullenly.

  At first she had found this habitual sullenness attractive, the way his fair brows knotted over light blue eyes, cold as winter skies. Now it only irritated her. He might be ambitious, but he lacked the imagination to bring his plans to fruition.

  The door to the hut scraped open. Michailo was on his feet in an instant, axe in hand, but it was only one of his men, Grisha Bearclaws.

  “Grisha.” Michailo slowly lowered the axe. “I could have split your head in two—”

  “Soldiers,” Grisha babbled. “A whole army. Coming this way.”

  “What kind of soldiers?”

  “Not our own. Foreigners. Gray and blue uniforms. Very neat, very orderly. All carrying muskets. Column after column.”

  Lilias had not missed a word. “In gray and blue?” she said. “That sounds like the Tielens.” She glanced at Dysis. “Has Velemir sent a rescue party at last?”

  “Too many just to rescue us,” Dysis said, now jiggling Artamon on her knee.

  “But they’ll give us protection. We must make contact with them.”

  “Are you mad, woman?” cried Michailo. “They’re not interested in us; they’re off to war. And if we contact them, we risk making our position known to the Drakhaon’s druzhina.”

  She went over to Michailo. “Don’t you see, Michailo? They’re our only hope of safe passage out of here.” If only she had had time to bring the Vox Aethyria with her, she could have contacted Velemir and the Tielen commanders, arranged a rendezvous. . . .

  “Let me go talk to them, then. You can hide in the bushes if you’re so scared you’ll be seen.”

  “No, and that’s an end to it.”

  She clenched her fists in vexation, fingernails biting into her palms. She must talk Michailo around. Not such an easy task, as he was so jumpy and bad-tempered, almost as if he regretted what he had done—although it was too late now for regrets.

  “Michailo,” she said in her softest, sweetest voice. “You have risked everything for my sake. Please don’t think I don’t appreciate the sacrifice you’ve made. But I have friends, influential friends, at the court of Tielen. It would be foolish not to ask for their help. Just imagine . . . our own escort of armed soldiers, safe passage beyond the reach of Lord Gavril. A new life . . .”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Volkh’s study in the Kalika Tower glittered with phials, alembics, and tubes, a brittle edifice of glistening glass. As Gavril entered, he saw Kazimir, intent on connecting another slender tube to the precarious construction.

  “How soon will the elixir be ready?”

  Kazimir turned to Gavril, his eyes narrowed in his bruised face. “My lord, this process cannot be rushed or you may die.”

  “Look at me.” Gavril thrust his hands before Kazimir’s face. “It has begun again. Soon I may not be able to control my actions.”

  Kazimir took his hands in his, examining the claw nails and the glittering scales of blue skin with intense concentration. “Fascinating,” he muttered. “You are remarkable beings, you Nagarians. It seems a crime to suppress what is happening to you. You are unique. Your gift makes you more than human. We scientists should learn from you, not destroy.”

  “You call this curse a gift?” Gavril withdrew his hands. “I just want to be rid of it. Do what you have to do, Doctor—and be quick about it.”

  Kazimir reached into his bag and withdrew a glass phial with a long needle protruding from the end. He uncorked a bottle of clear spirit and swiftly cleansed the needle.

  “I will need to take samples of blood, my lord.”

  Gavril made a grimace. “Of course.” He rolled up his sleeve. “What is that?”

  “A syringe. For the drawing out of fluids. Magus Linnaius gave it to me.”

  Gavril held out his bare arm. Kazimir came toward him, and then hesitated.

  Gavril looked at him, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

  “You’ve treated me well, Lord Gavril,” Kazimir said, “and in return, I feel it only right and fair that I should warn you, as I warned your mother. This ‘cure’ is highly risky. What worked for your father may not work for you. It will prove debilitating; it might prove fatal.”

  “Just do it,” Gavril said, averting his eyes as Kazimir pressed with his thumb for the vein in the soft crease of his elbow. The Magus’ needle pierced his skin, and his life’s blood began to flow into the glass tube, blue as indigo.

  CHAPTER 36

  Elysia sat in the window seat, gazing out through the bars over Swanholm’s bleak snow-covered hills and woods. All day she had sat there as she had sat the days before, staring out at the winter’s gloom and the black crows in the bare branches of the parkland trees. The dull, cold weather mirrored her despairing mood all too well.

  Prisoner. And all because of my own gullibility, allowing myself to be flattered and fooled!

  But now she saw a sleigh speeding down the snowy road toward Swanholm, escorted by uniformed outrider
s.

  She sat up, wondering who the new arrival might be.

  The horses drew the sleigh into the courtyard below, and one of the outriders jumped down to help the passengers out. First was a young woman, well-wrapped against the cold in a cape and hat of silver fur. She stood as though amazed, gazing up at the wide sweep of the palace buildings. Elysia leaned closer against the bars, her breath misting the cold panes. There was something familiar about the lithe and graceful way the young woman moved. . . .

  Wigged servants appeared on the steps, raising lanterns high to brighten her way through the dwindling daylight.

  As the young woman came forward into the lanterns’ soft gleam to enter the palace, Elysia gave a little cry of recognition.

  It was Astasia.

  Astasia untied her cloak and peeled off her fur gloves. A servant silently spirited her snow-damp outer clothes away; another servant ushered her into a salon hung with yellow silks where she was served with almond biscuits and hot tea laced with aquavit. And all the time she was staring around her, astonished at the austere splendor of Eugene’s palace.

  “Altessa. I trust your journey was not too cold?”

  She looked up and saw Count Velemir in the doorway.

  “I came as soon as I received your message, count.” She rushed over to him, pulling him into the salon. “But why the secrecy? Surely if it’s news about Andrei, my mother and father should be the first to know.”

  “Your father is in a—” he hesitated, “—fragile state of mind. And your mother has never been robust. I thought it better to bring you here to your fiancé’s home, where you will be safe.”

  “Safe?” She did not understand.

  “Sit down, child.”

  He had never dared to call her “child” before; it was oddly affectionate—yet overfamiliar. Surprised, she sat down and he sat beside her, taking her hands in his.

  “It’s bad news, then.” A dull feeling of dread overwhelmed her. Had they found Andrei’s body?

  “The world has begun to change, altessa. It was best that you were as far from Mirom as possible.”

  “Mirom? I thought this was about Andrei—”