by Sarah Ash
Forget him! she told herself, pulling her robe more closely around her. The Gavril Andar I knew is dead.
The Emperor and Empress sat together by the fire, sharing a rare moment of privacy after dinner. They lived their waking hours in public now—Eugene with his ministers and generals, Astasia attending function after function to represent her husband: opening a foundlings’ hospital; welcoming the wives of the Tielen dignitaries to Mirom; attending a subscription concert to raise money for the veterans of the recent hostilities. Astasia’s social diary was filled for the next twelve months.
Coffee had been served, strong and black as Eugene preferred, with a dash of spirits. Astasia had declined the coffee but nibbled one or two of the little almond biscuits as she sat beside her husband. Husband. How strange that word sounded, even now. She was joined by law to this tall, powerful man who was drinking his coffee like any other man, absentmindedly dipping an almond biscuit into the dark liquid and then quietly cursing as half fell into the cup, necessitating some hasty fishing with his silver spoon.
Even now Eugene was working; important papers had arrived tonight from one of his commanders in the field.
The fire crackled in the grate, the gilded clock (another Tielen import) ticked on the mantelpiece. Astasia picked up a third biscuit, then replaced it. Was this the moment to ask him about Elysia? The silence could almost be described as companionable—except that she was bored. Elsewhere in the palace, there was dancing tonight—a naval ball. She was still tempted to go back to join Varvara and her ladies in the ballroom, if it were not for the fact that her feet were red and sore. Her own fault. Why had she foolishly, vainly, insisted on wearing those new powder-blue shoes? The pointed toes were so pretty, but utterly unsuitable for walking the long corridors of the new convent school Eugene had set up for daughters of the army.
Yes, there was no doubt that Eugene was trying hard to win the citizens of Mirom with his new schools and hospitals. Something her poor, foolish Papa had neglected to consider. . . .
Eugene looked up from the dispatch he was reading. “Oh and Maltheus tells me the council has commissioned a wedding portrait of us both, to hang in the Great Chamber in Tielborg. You will need to warn your ladies-in-waiting to make your wedding gown ready for a sitting.”
“A wedding portrait?” This was her chance. Heart beating a little faster, she said, smiling, “I know of an excellent portraitist, Eugene.”
“Maltheus has already seen to it. He has brought in the services of Maistre Josse from Francia. He believes we have no portrait artists of suitable stature in Tielen.”
“In Tielen, maybe so. But in Smarna—”
He set the papers down and looked at her, frowning. “What are you suggesting, Astasia?”
What, not whom. She felt the smile begin to fray a little at the corners of her mouth, yet she was determined not to be put off. “Elysia Andar.”
His eyes looked on her coldly now, bleak as a wintry sea.
“She has lost her livelihood—and all because Count Velemir made her go to Tielen to deliver my portrait.” Astasia heard herself babbling and tried to slow down, to sound mature and reasonable. “Why should she be punished for her son’s crimes?”
“You must understand that it would be utterly inappropriate to employ Elysia Andar. So many of my people lost sons, husbands, and fathers in Azhkendir at her son’s hands.”
“She was a good companion to me, Eugene.” Astasia persevered even though she sensed he was becoming irritated. “Could you not at least let her go home? As a gesture of goodwill on our wedding?” She rose and gently laid one hand on his shoulder. “For my sake?”
He gazed up into her eyes. Still he did not smile back at her. “Does it mean so much to you?”
She nodded, feeling like a child again, cajoling Papa for some little treat she had been forbidden by Mama or Praxia.
“Then a passage will be granted.”
“Tonight? You will see to it tonight?”
“I will instruct Chancellor Maltheus tomorrow. It will be dispatched to Captain Lindgren straightaway.”
“That is more than generous!” Astasia, delighted at her triumph, kissed him. Eugene caught hold of her wrist and held her close, gently yet firmly, before she could pull away.
“You have a warm heart, Astasia,” he said, gazing intently into her eyes, “but take care. Now you are Empress, there are many who will seek to insinuate their way into your affections and take advantage of your kindness. Be careful, my dear.”
Her earlier elation drained away as she saw he was in deadly earnest.
“And never allow yourself to be alone with anyone, no matter how well you think you know them. There are some fanatical individuals who would not hesitate to harm you—or Karila—if they thought it would influence me.”
It was her first spontaneous display of affection, Eugene reflected as Astasia withdrew to prepare for bed. That soft press of Astasia’s lips to his was the first kiss that he had not had to initiate. The first time she had not closed her eyes as she leaned close to his burned, disfigured face. And all for Elysia Andar’s sake.
Astasia had left behind the book she was reading; he picked it up and saw it was a romantic novel, its prose trembling with high passion and peril. She was still a schoolgirl in so many ways, as charmingly wayward and naÏve as Karila. Was it possible that this perplexing, charming child-woman could grow to love him?
But did he dare to let himself grow fond of her? In allowing her a place in his heart, he would make himself vulnerable. An emperor could not afford such a weakness.
And yet, she had kissed him. She would be waiting for him now, in their blue velvet-hung bed.
The clock struck eleven. He took up the novel and had reached the door when there was a smart tap and Gustave appeared, bearing a folded paper on a silver tray.
“Well, what is it?” Eugene said a little curtly.
“A matter that requires your attention, imperial highness.”
Eugene stifled a sigh and opened the paper, hastily scanning the message, transcribed from a Vox Aethyria:
From Governor Armfeld, Old Citadel of Colchise, Smarna. Negotiations have broken down with the Smarnan council. They refuse to accept the terms of the annexation. They maintain that ownership of the Ruby of Smarna does not legally entitle his imperial highness to impose Tielen rule. They refuse to levy the taxes which are paid by all other citizens of the New Rossiyan Empire.
He lowered the paper, tempted to crush Armfeld’s message and hurl it into the fire. He had not anticipated trouble so soon—and in the smallest, least significant of the five countries.
“Will your highness send a reply?” Gustave hovered, ready to take dictation.
“I’ll speak to Armfeld myself.”
Eugene set out at a brisk stride, with Gustave hurrying along behind. It was not until he sat down at the Vox Aethyria that he realized he was still holding Astasia’s novel.
And what had he just promised Astasia, that he would send word to Azhkendir that Elysia Andar was free to return to Smarna? He closed his eyes and rested his head against his hand. He had allowed himself to be swayed by his feelings—and, as ever, it had proved to be imprudent. Now if he reneged on his promise, Astasia would believe that her wishes counted for nothing. He would attempt to explain that it was a matter of national security and she would shake her dark cloud of curls, pouting her pretty mouth . . .
Besides, what real harm could Elysia Andar do in Smarna? Her activities would be much easier to monitor in Vermeille than in remote Azhkendir. She might even prove to be useful. He would just have to take extra precautions.
He turned to Gustave. “Before I deal with Armfeld, get me our embassy in Francia.”
It was well past one in the morning by the time Eugene had dealt with the matters in hand to his satisfaction. As he rose from the desk, yawning and stretching, his hand knocked something to the floor. Bending down to pick it up, he saw it was Astasia’s novel. It had fallen open
at the place she had marked and as his eyes strayed down the page, he read:
“My palace, my whole court will be yours,” cried the Tsar. “Oh, Elise, my dearest Elise, you will be avenged. Tears of blood will repay you for the tears you have shed. . . .”
He snapped the book shut, shaking his head. Such romantic nonsense. And yet powerful in the influence it must exert on its readers, even on Astasia. Had novels such as this colored her expectations of life? Did she secretly expect him to match up to the dashing, tortured heroes in her favorite fiction?
If so, I must be something of a disappointment. He approached their apartments, nodding to the sentries on guard as they saluted him.
In their bedchamber, he saw her lying asleep, her dark hair unbound, like black silk on the pillow. Even now, to look at her sleeping, her dark lashes, her delicate pale complexion made him catch his breath.
“Astasia?” he said gently, bending down, his lips brushing her cheek. “You forgot your novel.”
She murmured something he could not quite catch and turned over, away from him, snuggling her face into the pillow.
He sighed and quietly began to undress, then slipped into bed beside her, making as little movement as possible so as not to disturb her.
It was the start of the Spring Festival in Tielen tonight. Eugene gazed at the sunlight sparkling on the distant Nieva. All week the young people would be dressing in white costumes to dance around bonfires and wander the streets until dawn, drinking and singing to welcome in the spring. Here across the water, in Muscobar, they did not burn spring bonfires or sing into the small hours. Instead, Astasia told him, they waited another whole six weeks till Kupala’s Eve. So to honor his homeland’s festival—and maybe to quench a pang of homesickness—he had ordered a grand formal dinner at the palace and a fireworks display on the Nieva to impress the citizens of Mirom.
“The visitor from Francia is here, highness,” Gustave announced. “I’ve shown him into your private study, as requested.”
Gustave had left the study door discreetly ajar so that Eugene could take a moment to observe the new arrival.
The young man seemed at ease, looking thoughtfully at an oil painting of sunset at sea, leaning forward from time to time as though to inspect a detail of brushwork or a signature, then stepping back to assess the effect again.
So this was Pavel Velemir, Feodor Velemir’s nephew. The likeness was striking.
“I’ve always been particularly fond of that seascape,” Eugene said quietly. “It was commissioned by my father.”
The young man started and then, effortlessly recovering his self-composure, placed both hands on his heart, bowing low in the Muscobar fashion. A lock of honey-gold hair flopped down over his eyes and he flicked it back with a careless toss of the head.
“Your imperial highness.”
“How like your late uncle you are,” Eugene said, smiling affably.
“Other people have told me so too.” Pavel Velemir smiled back, a smile of heart-stopping charm. He had not only inherited his uncle’s good looks but also his pleasant, easygoing manner. “What miracles of restoration you have accomplished here at the Winter Palace, highness. From the tales coming out of Muscobar, it was feared that the place had been burned to the ground.”
Eugene sat down at his desk and gestured for the young man to sit opposite him. “You were abroad at the time of your uncle’s death, I believe?”
“I was in Francia. Grand Duke Aleksei sent me as undersecretary to our ambassador there. I have a certain skill with languages.”
Eugene nodded indulgently. He knew the real reason for Pavel Velemir’s placement in the embassy: at the time, his agents in Francia had alerted him to the arrival of a new spy from Muscobar.
“I’m looking for an agent to undertake a mission of considerable delicacy. You might be the ideal candidate.”
“I’m flattered, highness.” Another hint of that heart-stopping smile.
“But first . . .” Eugene unfolded a document he had kept to his side of the desk. “Am I correct in thinking that you have inherited nothing from your uncle’s estates?”
The young man’s smile faded.
“In fact, I understand that at the time of his death, the count’s affairs were found to be in total disorder. What was it he left you—his art collection?”
“His rooms in the Winter Palace here were ransacked by the revolutionaries. The paintings that were not looted were defaced or burned.” Eugene saw that Pavel Velemir had clenched his hand into a tight fist. For a moment Eugene was vividly, painfully reminded of another passionate, fatherless young man: Jaromir.
“So you have nothing.”
The young man’s chin jerked up defiantly, as if countering a blow.
Eugene smiled. He had not been so impressed by Pavel Velemir’s good looks that he had failed to notice that his immaculate white shirt was frayed at the cuffs, or that the polished sheen of his riding boots could not quite conceal the fact that they had been mended once too often. Pavel was making a brave job of concealing his impoverished state, and that could only work to Eugene’s advantage.
Eugene leaned forward across the desk. “Work for me, Pavel, and I will see that you never want for anything again. Do you know Smarna?”
“Of course. My mother used to take a villa on the coast every summer when I was a child.”
Eugene allowed himself another smile. His sources had done their research well. “And you’ve heard that there’s trouble brewing there? A rebellion?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Become part of that rebellion. Convince them that your heart burns with the same passion for freedom as theirs. And then . . .”
“And then?”
“You’re an intelligent young man. Exactly how you act on that information, I leave to your discretion. But fulfill my trust in you, Pavel, and you will go far. Rossiya is a new empire, a young empire—and I need men and women of promise to protect our interests. What do you say?”
Pavel looked at him directly. “I am honored, highness, that you have chosen me.” His clear hazel eyes betrayed not the slightest trace of guile. Had he inherited Feodor’s gifts for deception as well as his charming smile? “But wouldn’t it help my mission if I had a strong motive to convince the Smarnan revolutionaries of my hate for Tielen? I need to engineer some public slight—and ensure it is witnessed by one or two influential people. That way it will be reported abroad in court journals and gazettes.”
Good! thought Eugene, warming to him even more. Not just a handsome face. “I will leave the details to you. I imagine you can be quite creative when the situation allows.” He rose; Pavel rose too. “And this is for you,” he added, holding out the folded document, “Count Pavel Velemir.”
Pavel stared at him a moment and then opened the document. “My uncle’s title—and the deeds to his estates?”
“You may continue to call him ‘uncle’ if you wish, but he named you as his only son and heir in this second, secret will,” Eugene said, intrigued to see that the news had made the young man flush an angry red.
Pavel Velemir refolded the will, meticulously smoothing down each crease. He looked up at Eugene, the angry flush gone from his cheeks, his hazel eyes calm and shrewd as he handed back the document.
“Imperial highness, I believe this could be the key to my public disgrace. Is there anyone you trust implicitly among the younger Tielen nobility, who could be made party to our plan?”
“You want me to transfer your uncle’s estates as a gift to one of my court?”
“And when I protest volubly, you could have me thrown out.”
“Then I would like you to join us for dinner tonight. My wife Astasia is most eager to hear the latest news from Francia.” Eugene could not resist setting another little test; his sources at the Mirom court had warned him that before her betrothal, Astasia had been seen to dance with Pavel Velemir on more than one occasion.
“I’d be delighted, imperial hi
ghness.” There was not even a flicker of reaction to the mention of her name.
Pavel Velemir walked swiftly along the gravel paths of the Rusalki Gardens. In the white-painted tubs, rare tulips bloomed, their heavy burgundy heads feathered with cream and gold. In Francia, the first roses were already in bud, but this far to the north, the spring flowers were only just opening.
He passed the Rusalki Fountain, which sprayed fanning jets of water high into the mild air. Courtiers out strolling in the afternoon sun stared curiously as he strode past, making for the River Gate. Young ladies-in-waiting whispered and giggled behind their lace-gloved hands.
So the gossip that had haunted him was right. He was not Feodor Velemir’s nephew. He was his son.
He slowed. It was not as if he had never suspected his true parentage. But he was angry with his mother. Why had she never told him the truth? He was no child, damn it; he was twenty-three.
As to the circumstances of his conception, he could only guess. An early forbidden romance between his mother and her libertine cousin, Feodor.
He had reached the wild garden that lay beyond the austere formal parterres and tubs. Here the grasses grew high between alders and the fresh green of weeping willows, all artfully planted to give the impression of a natural river meadow.
He snapped off a slender alder branch and struck angrily at the tall grasses.
Throughout his years at Mirom’s Military Academy he had been forced to endure the sneering comments of his blue-blooded, highborn fellow cadets.
He had fought more than one sabre-duel in defense of his mother Xenia’s honor.
He slashed at a yellow iris, neatly severing the flower from its stalk.
There were officers in the Mirom army who would bear the scars of their insolence to their graves.
It was Uncle Feodor who had rescued him from the drab prospect of an undistinguished military career, steering him into the Muscobar diplomatic service. Why had he never acknowledged him as his son? To avoid shaming his mother? Had he planned to reveal himself at some later stage? Or was it just too inconvenient in his busy life to burden himself with the duties of a father?