Lord of Snow and Shadows

by Sarah Ash

  “Let go of me!” she hissed, trying to shake herself free. “Down there, that’s our only hope of getting out of Azhkendir alive.”

  “Oh, so you think you can just walk straight in past their sentries, without getting shot on sight? That’s an invading army, Lilias, or hadn’t you noticed? They’re not on maneuvers now.”

  “Michailo!” Grisha shouted. “Look out!”

  Michailo grabbed hold of her, pulling her down into the snow-covered bracken as an arrow rasped over her head. One of Michailo’s men let out a hoarse scream as another arrow ripped through his throat, and he pitched forward into the gully. Another arrow and another thudded into the gorse a foot away, a shower of razor-barbed, long-stemmed shafts. Druzhina arrows.

  “Stupid bitch. They’ve tracked us!” He began to crawl forward on his belly over the frozen ground, axe in hand.

  “My baby—” She tried to struggle up but he shoved her back into the scrub.

  “Keep low. D’you want to be skewered?”

  “You’re surrounded, Michailo!” The voice, hard as ironstone, rang out across the steep hillside. “Throw down your weapons. Give yourselves up.”

  Michailo kept moving stealthily onward through the bracken. Lilias caught the dull glint of his throwing knife as he withdrew it from his boot.

  “Here I am, Jushko!” Michailo jeered. “Come and get me!”

  Shadowy figures appeared from behind boulders and stone outcrops. The druzhina had been lying in wait for them.

  Lilias saw Michailo fling the knife with deadly accuracy, then hurl himself forward, whirling his axe about his head.

  The barren hillside rang with the scything clash of steel on steel and the grunts and yells of the combatants.

  Where were Dysis and the baby? Lilias began to edge away down the track. And where were Eugene’s sentinels? Surely they must have heard the commotion by now.

  Shots rang out. Shouts in a foreign tongue. Tielen soldiers were running up the track toward the fracas.

  Lilias leapt out in their path, waving her arms.

  “Help me, oh please help me!” she cried. “They’ve got my baby.”

  Two of the infantrymen stopped, bayonets leveled at her throat. She raised her hands high in the air. Her mind went blank with terror, and then she remembered one of the few phrases in the Tielen language that Feodor Velemir had taught her long ago.

  “Take me to your commanding officer,” she said, stumbling over the pronunciation. “Please.”

  They stared at each other, baffled. Behind her, she heard the high-pitched wail of a baby rising above the shots and cries.

  “My baby!” she said. Tears sprang to her eyes, unfeigned. “Save my baby.” She was a negligent mother, she knew it, but Artamon was her only child, and at that moment she knew she would fight to the death to protect him.

  “Madame, madame, you’re safe!”

  Dysis came stumbling down the steep track toward her, carrying a furiously yelling bundle. Lilias forgot about the bayonets and grabbed Artamon from her, clasping him close, feeling his hot little fists beat against her and tear at her hair, amazed at his strength and fury.

  “There, there, baby, it’s all right, Mama’s got you now. . . .”

  “It’s terrible up there, madame,” Dysis wept. “It’s a massacre. First the druzhina, now these soldiers. Blood on the snow. I wish I hadn’t seen it.” Her face was streaked with tears and dirt; her hair had come down about her shoulders.

  “This way,” one of the infantrymen said stiltedly in the common tongue, gesturing with his carbine down the track toward the camp.

  “Yes, yes,” Lilias said above Artamon’s crying. “We’re coming. We’re coming.”

  “Not one word of farewell. Not even goodbye. Just up and away.” Kiukiu paced beneath the bare branches in the frosty monastery orchard. “Do I matter so little to him?”

  Her memories of what had happened on the mountainside were as fleeting as fever dreams. Yet one moment had stayed with her, so vivid that she was certain she had not dreamed it: the moment he had spoken her name, leaning close to stroke her face, and she had heard the catch in his voice. He had feelings for her, she was sure of it—so why had he gone away?

  The monastery bells began to clang. Startled pigeons tumbled out of the bell tower in a flurry of gray wings.

  Kiukiu hurried toward the courtyard, wondering why the brothers were ringing the bells when there was no act of worship to be observed until dusk.

  The brothers came running out from the infirmary, the library, and the kitchens, assembling in front of the church. Kiukiu followed them.

  Abbot Yephimy climbed to the top of the steps, turning to address them as the clamor of the bells died.

  “Grave news, my brothers,” he said. “Azhkendir has been invaded by the Tielen army.”

  Kiukiu stared at the abbot. Were they at war with Tielen? Was Lord Gavril in danger?

  “There’s no news yet of any hostilities, but we must prepare to receive and tend casualties. Brother Hospitaler . . .”

  The assembly broke up as the monks gathered around Brother Hospitaler, who began to issue orders.

  Kiukiu drew her cloak about her more closely, pulling the hood down over her head, and made for the gates.

  She felt a firm hand clamp on her shoulder and, looking round, saw Abbot Yephimy behind her.

  “Where are you going, child?”

  “They need me at Kastel Drakhaon.”

  “You’ll be far safer here in the monastery. Stay with your grandmother. She needs you too.”

  “I don’t care about the danger,” she said, surprised at the coolness of her words. “I have to go help. In any way I can.”

  Must escape. I must escape.

  Elysia took out the third of her hairpins and began again to try to bend it. Two had snapped in her first lock-picking experiments, so this time she had warmed the metal first at the grate before setting to work.

  Velemir must have anticipated that she would try to escape, for the only cutlery she was given with her meals were spoons and a blunt knife—and the servant was ordered not to leave unless every one had been returned.

  Soon she would be obliged to tie her hair back with a ribbon, for there were only three pins left to support the loose chignon into which she had wound her hair. Would her jailers notice? Velemir had not been to see her in over a day. . . .

  As she worked at her improvised lock pick, she forced herself to plan what she would do if she succeeded. She had already discounted stealing a horse from the stables and riding off into the snows. She must find out where in the palace Astasia was installed, and beg her protection. There was no other course of action.

  Her crude efforts had bent the pin enough to risk a third attempt. She knelt down at the keyhole and slid the crude pick in, jiggling it about until it encountered resistance.

  Careful now . . .

  It was at this moment that the last two hairpins had broken. Gingerly, she applied a little more force . . . and then something . . . a lever? . . . began to give.

  Just a little more pressure . . .

  Her teeth bit into her lower lip as she concentrated all her efforts into this delicate maneuver. . . .

  Too hard. Suddenly the pin shaft snapped and her fingers were gashed by the sudden movement against the edge of the keyhole, slicing a little of the flesh away. Blood dripped onto the polished boards.

  All those hours of work for nothing. Elysia wrapped her handkerchief around her cut finger to try to stanch the bleeding.

  Suddenly she found she was weeping. Tears of anger and frustration trickled down her cheeks.

  I never cry! Not over something so trivial as a cut finger.

  Yet still the tears kept coming. She could not stop them. She flung herself down on the boards and wept like a child.

  CHAPTER 37

  “One of the prisoners keeps asking to see you, highness. Says she has news of Lord Jaromir.”

  The dispatches dropped from Euge
ne’s hands. “Bring her to me.”

  When his aide had gone, he rose and paced about the cramped tent, repeatedly striking his fist against his palm, trying to diffuse the growing sense of frustration.

  The tent flap was raised and a woman was led in. To his surprise, she sank into a full court curtsy, head bowed.

  “Your highness,” she said in stumbling Tielen.

  “Rise, madame,” he said in the common tongue, “and tell me who you are.”

  “My name is Lilias Arbelian. I once had the honor to be presented to your highness by Feodor Velemir.”

  Arbelian? Her face was dirt-streaked, her clothes were torn and filthy, her red hair disheveled—and yet there was something in her bearing and voice that signified she was no common camp follower.

  “Velemir has an agent called Arbelian,” he said, placing the name at last. “How can I be certain you are she and not an Azhkendi impostor, sent to spy?”

  “You can let me speak with Feodor using your Vox Aethyria.” She nodded her head wearily in the direction of the device. “I lost mine when I was forced to flee Kastel Drakhaon.”

  So she knew of the Vox Aethyria—and had used its correct name. He would have to risk trusting her.

  “You have news of Lord Jaromir,” he said, trying to keep any hint of emotion from his voice. “When did you last see him?”

  “At Kastel Drakhaon.”

  “He is a prisoner?” Dear God, if Jaro had fallen into the druzhina’s clutches, what atrocities had they committed? Was that why his life flame burned so faintly? “Tell me everything you know!”

  “He came to rescue me from the druzhina,” she said, “but we were caught escaping. Michailo managed to save me, but Jaromir . . .” Her voice faltered and she swayed on her feet, one hand fluttering to her forehead.

  Eugene lunged forward and caught her as she fell.

  “Aquavit for Madame Arbelian,” he called. “And be quick!” He eased her down into one of the folding camp chairs, propping a velvet cushion behind her drooping head.

  “Forgive me, highness,” she whispered.

  The aide came in with a little crystal glass of aquavit and Eugene knelt, holding it to Lilias Arbelian’s lips, tipping the clear liquid into her mouth. She swallowed a few drops, then nodded her head weakly, waving the glass away.

  “You must be hungry,” Eugene said. “Bring some broth for madame.”

  He waited in an agony of apprehension as she drank some hot broth and ate a little bread. Her skin, beneath the film of dirt, seemed a little less pale, her eyes less dull.

  “Now, madame,” he said, sitting opposite her. “Tell me everything you know.”

  As he listened to her account, he felt himself growing more and more agitated. It seemed that the last she had seen of Jaromir was two of the Drakhaon’s druzhina dragging him away. And Jaromir had not caught up with them in their flight from the Drakhaon. Lord Gavril had already used his powers to destroy a wolf horde, burning them to ashes. She feared . . .

  Anckstrom came in toward the end of her tale and listened, arms folded across his broad chest, saying nothing. When she had finished, he leaned forward and whispered in Eugene’s ear.

  “It accords—roughly—with what we’ve been able to get from the other prisoners.”

  Eugene rose and beckoned Anckstrom outside the tent.

  “Come. Walk with me.”

  Watch fires glimmered along the borders of the camp. The night air was bitterly cold.

  “‘Accords roughly’? Explain.”

  “Seems we’ve run into two feuding factions within the druzhina. Your Madame Arbelian was being pursued by the Drakhaon’s men. Would you care to interrogate one of them yourself?”

  The prisoner was shackled to an interrogation post, hands high above his head. He was a tall, gaunt man, with a shaven head. His skin, where it was not covered with the blue and purple whorls of tattooed clanmarks, was rutted with old scars. What barbarians, Eugene thought with distaste.

  When one of Eugene’s interrogators tugged on the chains, forcing the prisoner to raise his head, Eugene saw that he had lost an eye. The lids had been sewn tightly together across the empty socket, giving his expression a perpetually ironic cast.

  “Do what you will,” the prisoner said, voice faint yet defiant, “I’ll never betray my lord Drakhaon.” Fresh wounds to his forehead and side had been bandaged, but a stain of scarlet was already leaking through the bindings.

  “You Azhkendis may employ barbaric methods of torture to extract information,” Eugene said, “but we are more civilized in Tielen. Have you administered the truth tincture, sergeant?” he asked the interrogator.

  “It should be taking effect now, highness.”

  “What . . . have you done . . . to me?” As Linnaius’ drug took effect, the prisoner began to slur his words, and what had started as a protest subsided into a confused mumble.

  “Now you will tell us everything we wish to know,” Eugene said, signing to his clerk to start recording the prisoner’s testimony. “What is your name and rank?”

  “Jushko. Acting commander . . . of the druzhina.” The prisoner sounded like a man murmuring in his sleep.

  Anckstrom and Eugene exchanged a look.

  “And what, Commander Jushko, was your mission?”

  “To capture . . . Lilias . . . and the rebels . . . Bring her back . . . alive . . .”

  Anckstrom nodded to Eugene.

  “And where is Lord Jaromir Arkhel?”

  There was a pause.

  “Dead.”

  “Dead!” Eugene’s heart seemed to have stopped beating. He could see only the prisoner’s ravaged face, and his dull, drugged eye. “How can he be dead! He was taken prisoner at the kastel. Madame Arbelian saw him—”

  “Escaped,” Jushko said thickly. “Lord Gavril . . . went after him. Shot him. How else . . . lay Lord Volkh’s ghost?”

  “The man’s babbling nonsense!” Eugene cried. “You’ve given him too much of the tincture.”

  “Easy, Eugene.” Anckstrom laid one hand on his arm.

  “He says Jaro is dead. How can he be dead?” Eugene turned on Anckstrom. “The life flame still burns. You’ve seen it, Anckstrom—”

  “I’m sure there is a logical explanation here,” Anckstrom said calmly.

  “Proof. I need proof.” Eugene pulled away from Anckstrom and went up to the prisoner, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. “Did you see the body? Answer me! Did anyone see the body!”

  “Up . . . in . . . mountains.” Jushko’s head slumped drunkenly forward. “Fell . . . down crevasse . . .”

  “If this is true,” said Eugene, his mind whirling with the implications of Jushko’s statement, “then the Andar woman dies.”

  “We don’t know it to be true,” said Anckstrom guardedly. “And she is our best negotiating ploy.”

  It seemed to Eugene that all the colors had leached from the tent, the warm gold from the lamplight, the scarlet from the glow of the brazier. Everything had become gray.

  “Revive him,” he said, pointing to Jushko. “He’s going to lead us to Kastel Drakhaon. We’re going to find out the truth.”

  “But what about Muscobar?” said Anckstrom in an undertone. “The fleet’s awaiting your orders. We mustn’t lose our advantage. All your work, highness, your plans, your men—”

  “Muscobar,” Eugene said curtly, “can wait.”

  “Who are you?” The voice was high and clear, a child’s voice.

  Startled, Astasia whirled around and saw a young girl. The child, no more than six or seven years of age, was standing staring at her with probing curiosity. There was something odd about the way she stood, one shoulder hunched higher than the other.

  “You startled me. How did you get in?”

  “Are you going to be my new mama?” the child asked with utter directness.

  Astasia did not know how to reply. She went over to the girl, kneeling down beside her. Close to, she could see that her nightgown
was made of the finest cream silk, trimmed with ivory lace. With her golden curls, she was as pale and pretty as a porcelain doll—but a doll that has been violently thrown down, its limbs twisted grotesquely out of shape.

  “Are you Prince Eugene’s daughter?”

  “My name is Karila. But you may call me Kari, if you like.”

  “Does anyone know you’re here, Kari? Is your governess looking for you? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  “I had bad dreams. And when I called out, no one came.”

  “Let me take you back to bed.”

  Kari shook her head vehemently. “Don’t want any more bad dreams.”

  “I know how to banish bad dreams. You show me the way.”

  The child took Astasia’s hand and led her out into the candlelit corridors.

  “The dragon came again in my dream. Its breath burned me.” Her grip was hot and sticky, as if she were feverish. No wonder, Astasia thought, she had been dreaming of burning.

  Suddenly Karila stopped, her hand squeezing Astasia’s.

  “Why is that lady crying?”

  Astasia listened. Now she could hear the faint sound of someone weeping.

  “It must be one of the servants, Kari.”

  “No. It’s the foreign painter lady. They put bars on her windows. I think she is sad because she wants to go home and Papa won’t let her.”

  “Bars? She’s a prisoner?” So Elysia was still here! What other lies had Velemir told her? “Show me.”

  “Doctor Kazimir has made his delivery, as promised, highness.” Eugene’s aide reined in his horse to fall into step with Cinnamor.

  Eugene pulled Cinnamor aside from the head of the column of men.

  “Let me see it.”

  The aide withdrew a little glass phial from his uniform jacket.

  “This is all?” Eugene held the phial up to the pale winter sunlight, tipping it so that the viscous liquid slid to one end and then the other. In the light it glowed a dull blue, more like ink than blood. Drakhaon’s blood.

  “All that he could extract before administering the . . . other substance.”

  “Where is the doctor now?”