Prisoner of the Iron Tower

by Sarah Ash

  “Really, Mama, I—”

  “He’s fathered a child, so I don’t think you need have any worries in that area, although there were some whispers—slander, I’m sure—when he adopted that Arkhel boy from Azhkendir . . .”

  Worse and worse! Astasia closed her eyes, praying that Mama would not rattle on like this in front of some Tielen dignitary at the wedding.

  “My little girl’s going to be a woman, a married woman.” Sofia embraced Astasia, hugging her close as tears coursed down her cheeks. Astasia hugged her back, desperately trying to think of an excuse to get away before Sofia embarrassed her further with more talk of the wedding night.

  There came a little tap at the salon door and Nadezhda popped her head around.

  “A gift from his imperial highness,” she announced.

  “Ooh!” cried Sofia excitedly, clasping her hands together. “What will it be, Tasia? A little amethyst tiara would go well with the necklace. . . .”

  Nadezhda came in and, demurely bobbing a curtsy, presented Astasia with a delicate lace-bound posy of violets and snowdrops.

  “Oh,” said Astasia, surprised. “Flowers. Real flowers.” The little posy appealed to her so much that she pinned it to the shoulder of her dress.

  It was the first gift he had sent her that touched her heart. Violets in winter.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was the last of the five rubies, crimson as Smarnan wine, cunningly fashioned by ancient craftsmen in the form of a teardrop.

  The fifth tear of long-dead Emperor Artamon was about to be reunited with its fellows for the first time in centuries. And for the first time in centuries, one man had dared to fulfill his dreams of an empire. Eugene of Tielen had battled to reunite the five princedoms of Artamon’s shattered empire—and had won.

  The coronation was tomorrow. The Emperor had attended his final fitting some days before. Adjustments had been made. The imperial crown must be finished before dawn—and to that end, the best jewelers in Tielen had been shipped across the Straits to Mirom and installed under armed guard in the East Wing of the Winter Palace.

  Paer Paersson, the master jeweler, worked late into the night with his craftsmen to complete the setting for the Orlov ruby: a golden sea eagle, wings outspread, claws open to clutch the stone to its breast.

  All the jewelers and their apprentices stood waiting to witness the final moment in the creation of their new Emperor’s crown. They had labored for months, fashioning the settings from the most precious of materials: gold, pearls, and exquisitely cut tiny diamonds.

  Paer Paersson carefully lifted the ruby from its box and, with skilled fingers, placed it in its setting. The others fell silent, watching respectfully. Only the ticking of the ornate clock on the mantel could be heard.

  With a final twist, the master jeweler gently fixed the stone in position. He placed the crown onto a cushion of rich purple velvet and set it on the table in front of him.

  “At last,” he said, letting out a long sigh. “Send word to his imperial highness. Tell him it is ready.”

  The youngest apprentice sped away across the courtyard toward the imperial apartments.

  In the candlelight, the rich rubies glowed red. The craftsmen of the Jewelers’ Guild stood admiring their masterpiece in reverent silence.

  The rubies glowed more intensely. Paer Paersson took off his spectacles and rubbed his tired eyes. Even without his spectacles he could see that the glow from the gems was growing brighter. And he could sense a sound so low it was almost a vibration—as if a heavy carriage were passing across the courtyard.

  “Master Paersson,” whispered one of the other craftsmen. “What’s happening?”

  The vibration had become a low buzz. The louder it grew, the more the brightness of the rubies increased. Five lights, like bloodstained flames, burned at the heart of each teardrop stone.

  “Have you ever seen the like?” Paer Paersson leaned closer. The buzzing grew louder, the flames burned more brightly.

  “Move away, Master Paersson.” The jewelers began to back toward the door, bumping into one another in their confusion. “For God’s sake, move away!” But Paer could not move; fear and wonder held him bound to the spot.

  The room glowed like a furnace—and the heart of the furnace was the imperial crown.

  Eugene of Tielen hurried across the courtyard toward the jewelers’ workshop. He was so eager to see Artamon’s rubies in the finished crown that he had not waited for Paer Paersson to bring it to him, but had come himself.

  Now he halted, seeing a red glow illuminating the windows of the workroom. Was the room ablaze? He could not discern any trace of smoke.

  Puzzled, he pushed open the door. The youngest apprentice, following close on his heels, let out a yelp of terror.

  Each of the five rubies in the imperial crown burned in its filigree settings. And a deep buzzing filled the room, notes of five low pitches twining about one another like the droning of a hive of bees.

  “Stay back, highness,” Paer Paersson warned.

  “But this is quite extraordinary. Artamon’s rubies . . . alive.” Eugene moved forward, ignoring Paer Paersson’s warning. “One of you go and fetch the Magus.” He had to raise his voice to make himself heard as the hum of the stones grew steadily louder.

  Suddenly five jets of crimson light shot out, one from each ruby, arcing upward toward the ceiling.

  Eugene sprang back, shading his eyes. The craftsmen cowered away, hiding their faces. The apprentices whimpered with fear.

  The five shafts of ruby-fire meshed together, fusing into a single column of light.

  It pierced the ceiling of the craftsmen’s workroom like a spear.

  Eugene ran out into the courtyard, gazing up into the black of the night sky. The rubies’ spearshaft of light went shooting upward into the starry heavens like a blood-streaked comet, illuminating the pale stones and columns of the Winter Palace in its glow. For a moment the stars themselves were stained red, as though with blood.

  Servants and troopers of the Household Cavalry slowly gathered in the courtyard in awestruck silence.

  And then—as suddenly as it had begun—the light died. The night air was chill, clear, and silent—except for the hushed murmurings of Eugene’s astonished household.

  Eugene stood staring up at the empty sky. The stars glittered again, cold and white-blue as the tiny diamonds Paer Paersson had cut for his crown.

  A man appeared silently beside him in the darkness. And even in the uncertain starlight the prince sensed that it was Kaspar Linnaius, Magus and Royal Artificier. Eugene beckoned him to a secluded corner where they could not be overheard.

  “Well, Magus?” he said quietly. “What does it mean?”

  “In all truth, highness,” came back the Magus’s voice, calm and distant, “I do not know. I have never seen its like before. Perhaps we may take it as a good omen? A blessing from Artamon, bestowed on the first man great enough to restore his broken empire?”

  “Oh come now, Linnaius, you know I am not in the least superstitious. You may circulate this pretty myth, if you wish, to reassure my people . . . but I need answers. Scientific answers.” He approached the master jeweler. “Paer, is this the first time you have witnessed this phenomenon?”

  Paer Paersson nodded his head, evidently still too shaken to speak.

  “And perhaps the last,” Eugene said pensively. “Linnaius, speak to our archivists in the morning. Send scholars out to all five princedoms. I want to know if such a thing ever happened in Artamon’s reign. I want to know the history of the rubies. I want this thoroughly researched.”

  The alarm bell of Kastel Drakhaon clanged out a frantic warning, shattering the night.

  Gavril Nagarian clambered up the broken tower stairs, one precarious step at a time. Bogatyr Askold followed close behind.

  The Kalika Tower had taken its share of the bombardment during the siege. Ragged holes gaped in the walls, letting in the cold night air. Yet still it stood, Volkh’s
tower, where other sturdier watchtowers had fallen in the attack.

  Gavril reached the top and pushed open the door that led out onto the roof.

  “What new mischief can it be this time?” grumbled Askold as they scanned the darkened horizon.

  Below, servants and druzhina came hurrying out into the courtyard, pointing to the heavens.

  A distant column of fiery light, thin as a scarlet thread, pierced the dark skies to the east. The crystalline brilliance of the constellations overhead flushed red as blood.

  In that moment, it felt as if the fiery bolt of light speared Gavril’s brain and a current of energy shivered through his mind. He strove to speak, but his tongue was frozen.

  “What d’you mean, dragging us all from our warm beds for this, Semyon?” Sosia, the kastel housekeeper, chided. “It’s just the northern lights, you silly boy!”

  “I’ve never seen ’em burn bloodred before,” muttered Askold at Gavril’s side.

  And just as suddenly as the column of light had appeared, it vanished, leaving the stars sparkling diamond-clear above their heads.

  “What d’you think it was, Drakhaon?” said Askold. “Some new Tielen weapon?”

  “I don’t know.” Gavril found he had regained the power of speech. His head cleared. “But whatever it was, we should stay on our guard. Eugene of Tielen won’t forgive us so easily for defeating him.”

  Kiukiu was helping Lady Elysia sort through a pile of sheets and blankets that had been dug out from the rubble when the alarm bell began to clang—a harsh, terrifying sound in the cold of the night.

  “Now whatever can the matter be?” Lady Elysia let drop the blanket she was mending and went to the window, raising the oiled cloth that had been nailed across the frame to keep out the worst of the drafts.

  Kiukiu heard running feet, druzhina and servants calling out to one another. She could not move. Please let it not be the Tielens, she prayed silently.

  “What is that light?” said Lady Elysia, peering out, her voice hushed with wonder.

  Kiukiu went to get up and join her at the window—and her mind was suddenly filled with voices, children’s voices, all screaming out in terror. “Oh,” she whispered. “Who are you?”

  She stands gazing out at a great expanse of moving water, bluer than Lake Ilmin. Children surround her, pulling at her hands, her clothes, their eyes wide with fear and despair.

  “Help us, Spirit Singer. Set us free.”

  “I—I can’t. There are so many of you . . . and I don’t even know your names.”

  As she gazes at their pale, dead faces she sees that each child bears a red, ragged knife-wound across the throat. Horror numbs her. Who could have done such a terrible thing to these innocent children?

  And then she senses she is being watched. Turning slowly, she sees a tall figure behind her, clothed in glittering darkness. It is watching her with two luminous eyes as slanted and strange as the Drakhaoul’s—and a third eye, crimson as a bloodstained flame, burns on its forehead. And such a feeling of dread overcomes her that she cannot back away, even though every instinct tells her she must flee.

  The children cry out again, clustering around her, clinging to her in fear.

  “Please help us.”

  “Kiukiu.” Someone was calling her name. The blue water faded from her sight, the children’s piteous pleading grew fainter until she blinked and found herself gazing into Lady Elysia’s anxious face.

  “Are you all right, Kiukiu?”

  Kiukiu nodded. She felt a little sick and disoriented. “What happened?”

  “You fainted. Sit up slowly. That’s right. Luckily the blankets cushioned your fall.”

  “I’m sorry.” What must Lady Elysia think of her? “Sometimes I . . .”

  Elysia nodded. “Gavril has told me of your gift. What did you see? Does it help to talk about it?”

  Kiukiu hugged her arms about her body; she felt cold now, chilled to the bones. “Sometimes I hear echoes from long ago in the kastel. The stones remember . . .”

  On a dark, lonely shore far from Mirom, Andrei lay asleep on a straw pallet in the fisherman’s cottage.

  A sudden spearshaft of light pierced his dreams, coloring them red as spilled blood.

  He gave a cry and sat bolt upright.

  It must be a flare, sent up by a ship in distress.

  “Ship on the rocks!” Still half-asleep, he fumbled his way to the doorway and stared out into the night, scanning the empty sea.

  A flaming column stretched from earth into the heavens on the distant horizon, staining the black sea red. A rushing sound suddenly filled his ears, as if a crowd of midges were swarming in his brain. Little flashes of fiery light flickered across his vision. His head spun.

  “That’s no distress flare.” Kuzko, his voice thick with sleep, appeared behind him.

  Andrei struggled to reply. Words tried to force themselves from his mouth, but when they came out, they seemed meaningless.

  “Nagar’s—Eye,” he heard himself stammer. “Take—me—home.”

  “Yes, lad.” Kuzko’s hand came down on his shoulder. “And if only you could remember where home was, we’d get you back to your folks on the next spring tide.”

  And then the fiery column disappeared, as swiftly as if it were a snuffed-out candleflame.

  Andrei blinked, rubbed his eyes. He turned to Kuzko.

  “What did I say?”

  “Take me home,” repeated Kuzko.

  “Before that.”

  “A place name, maybe. Not one I recognized. Nagar’s Eye. Is that where you hail from, Andrei?”

  Andrei shook his head. The name meant nothing to him. And the disappointment now seemed almost too great to bear. For a moment it seemed as if his memory had been unlocked. But whatever had been awakened by the fiery column had been just as swiftly extinguished.

  Kuzko uncorked a stone bottle of spirits; he swallowed a swift mouthful, then passed it to Andrei.

  “I’ve little enough left, but you look as if you could do with it, lad. Take a good swig. It’ll help you sleep.”

  Astasia fretted on the foggy quayside, shivering in her warmest fur-lined cloak. She was waiting to welcome Karila and her entourage to Mirom.

  Their arrival had been delayed because of the little princess’s sudden indisposition. Her Great-Aunt Greta, the Dowager Duchess of Haeven, had sent a message to say that she had delayed the voyage of the royal barque because Karila had developed a nasty cough on the journey down from the Palace of Swanholm. And then they had encountered sea fog in the Straits.

  It was strange, Astasia reflected, that she was soon to be stepmother to Karila, when their relationship was more akin to that of older and younger sisters. She had always dreamed of having a younger sister to play with, but Mama had never been robust enough to produce another child.

  Palace servants brought a brazier of slow-burning coals and Astasia gratefully held her frozen hands to the warmth.

  Wisps of fog began to roll across the city; the lanterns on the rigging of the great ships dimmed.

  “You mustn’t stay out here any longer,” whispered Nadezhda. “You’ll catch your death of cold. We can’t have you sneezing your way through the service tomorrow. Just imagine—when his highness raises your wedding veil, he’s not going to want to see a red nose and be greeted with a sneeze, is he?”

  Astasia could not help smiling in spite of the cold. “But I must be here to welcome Karila to Mirom.”

  “Welcome her inside the palace, in front of a large log fire,” insisted Nadezhda.

  “Royal barque approaching!” came a shout from the lookout to the members of the new imperial bodyguard.

  “At last,” whispered Astasia, relieved that her freezing wait was nearly over.

  Princess Karila’s little entourage had just begun to disembark at the River Gate outside the Winter Palace when the night sky was pierced by a brilliant beam of fire.

  “Holy saints preserve us!” Nadezhda hastily made
the sign to avert evil. “It’s not those insurgents again, trying to burn the palace?”

  Astasia gazed up at the crimsoned stars. She had never seen anything like this before. It was at once strikingly beautiful, and oddly disturbing. . . .

  Karila, muffled up in her fur-lined cloak, hat, and mittens, waited dutifully on deck with Great-Aunt Greta for the sailors to lower the gangplank onto the quay.

  She had never made such a long journey away from Swanholm before.

  “There’s the Winter Palace, my dear, where we’ll be staying,” said Great-Aunt Greta, her breath issuing from her mouth in frosty clouds.

  A spear of fire suddenly shot up into the night sky.

  Karila gave a sharp cry. It was as if the crimson spear had pierced her throat. A wash of blood began to drip down from the wound, tingeing the whole world fiery red.

  She dropped to her knees as a swirl of violent and incomprehensible images glittered and shifted in her mind.

  An indigo sea washes onto a bone-white seashore . . .

  “Whatever’s wrong, child?” Great-Aunt Greta gripped hold of her and tried to pull her back to her feet.

  Her throat felt as if it were choked with blood. She tried to speak, but all that came out was coughing.

  The sailors on the Tielen royal barque had abandoned their tasks and were pointing up at the sky.

  “Back to work!” shouted a military voice impatiently. “Have you never seen fireworks before?” It was a lieutenant of the imperial bodyguard, although from his accent, Astasia recognized him as a fellow countryman.

  “Fireworks?” she repeated.

  “I’ll wager it’s a rehearsal for tomorrow’s celebrations by the Royal Artificier and his aides, highness. I—”

  A shrill cry interrupted his words.

  “Help! The princess!”

  Forgetting decorum, Astasia gathered up her skirts and ran across the frosty cobbles toward the Tielen royal party, Nadezhda and the lieutenant hurrying after her.