by Sarah Ash
Colors shimmer in the air around him, so vivid he can taste them: yellow, tart as lemon zest; purple, heavy with the musky sweetness of autumn grapes; sea-aquamarine, tinged with a hint of brine; fern-green and gold of anise-savored fennel . . .
Now he can glimpse translucent forms darting and swooping around him. He senses the beat of wings, fast and light as a bird’s, stirring soft whirring vibrations in the scented air. Brilliant eyes glimmer close, staring at him with curiosity, then blink and vanish. He feels the kiss of gossamer-soft lips, breathing spice-scented breath . . .
He raises his hand to greet these fleeting apparitions, overcome with delight and wonder—and feels himself slowly borne upward with them, light as a drift of soap bubbles . . .
Gavril awoke to hear the splatter of wind-driven raindrops against the roof slates of the Iron Tower. His mind was still filled with swirling colors; his body still felt light enough to float. The Drakhaoul’s memories must be seeping into his dreams again. The images were richly sensual, yet tainted with a disturbing aura of darkness. He did not want to be drawn back into the darkness.
In prison in Mirom he was sure he had heard the Drakhaoul’s voice. But if the Drakhaoul was still at large in the world, why had he not heard it since that night? Madmen heard “voices” that told them to commit terrible deeds. Did that mean he was truly mad?
He pulled his blanket closer, listening to the incessant patter of the rain overhead. He wished he could dream of more comforting things. He tried to picture his bedchamber at the kastel: his father’s hunting tapestries of red and gold; the warmth of the burning pine logs in the grate, the aromatic scent of the curling smoke evoking the green shadows of the great forest of Kerjhenezh that lay beyond the kastel walls. And Kiukiu kneeling at the grate to tend the fire; Kiukiu impatiently pushing aside a straying strand of golden hair as she raked the glowing embers, wiping a smut of ash from her cheek with the back of her hand. . . .
“Stay with me, Kiukiu,” he whispered. He was cold, and dawn was still hours away. “Help me keep the dreams at bay.”
Gavril sneezed a wracking sneeze that left him shivering.
“One more circuit.” His warder lounged against the wall of the exercise yard, picking at a hangnail.
Gavril pushed himself on. His head ached, his nose was blocked, obliging him to breathe through his mouth, and his throat was sore. Just a head cold. How could a simple cold make him feel so wretched?
He sneezed again. Now his nose began to stream and he had no handkerchief. He stopped, obliged to wipe his nose on his sleeve like a little child.
“Keep moving, Twenty-One.”
Elysia would have made him a hot drink of honey and lemon juice to stop the shivering. Palmyre would have brought him clean handkerchiefs, freshly laundered and ironed, smelling of lavender from the villa gardens.
He lumbered doggedly on, forcing one foot to follow the other. If they could just allow him one extra blanket to keep warm at night . . . But he had asked and been told bluntly, “No special privileges.” So he must endure the damp and the cold as best he could. . . .
The sound of voices made him raise his head. Through cold-bleared eyes he saw two warders supporting a prisoner who walked with a strange, lolling gait.
“Time’s up,” said his warder, jerking one thumb in the direction of the Iron Tower.
Gavril stared at the prisoner. He moved like one who has forgotten how to walk.
“Left foot now,” ordered one of the warders, but the prisoner did not seem to understand. “Left!”
The prisoner began to make some kind of reply, but the words came out all jumbled and slurred together. “Trying . . . am . . .”
He was close enough now for Gavril to see that the man’s head had been shaved and bandaged. Blood had leaked out and dried brown on one side of the bandages.
“Right foot.”
“Sh-shorry . . .” The man tried to raise his drooping head. Gavril recognized Thirteen, the prisoner he had seen shouting and demanding his rights a few days ago.
Gavril’s warder placed one hand on his arm, trying to move him on. Gavril shook the hand off.
“What have you done to him?” he demanded.
“None of your business.” The hand gripped harder.
“Those bandages. The blood.” Gavril stood his ground. “Has he been tortured?”
“Shut your mouth!”
Gavril’s cold turned feverish by nightfall. He huddled in the corner of his cell, cocooned in his threadbare blanket. In most prisons, inmates could buy comforts such as a brazier of coals to keep warm or extra blankets. But he had no money at his disposal and no family or friends nearby to pay for such necessities.
He could not keep from thinking about Thirteen. Those bloodied bandages, that shambling gait . . . Was it torture, or had Thirteen harmed himself in his rage and despair? His teeth began to chatter uncontrollably as he pulled his blanket tighter. If it was torture, when would it be his turn?
As hot and cold chills ran through his body, he tried to sleep. Fever-fueled images began to leak into his mind. He kept starting awake, only to see fleeting impressions of jewel-flecked eyes, daemon-eyes, staring at him in the dark.
“No,” he heard himself mumbling. “Leave me be.”
The air trembles. A thunderous darkness looms. A feeling of foreboding overwhelms him.
The bruised sky is rent apart. A ragged gateway gapes, as though some nameless power has ripped the very matter of this world asunder.
A sound issues from the gateway in wave after sickening wave, the sound of disintegration, a grinding and groaning that judders through him until he feels himself drawn helplessly toward the rent in the sky.
Then he is sucked into a whirling vortex; a chaos that crushes all consciousness from him—
And spits him out into a harsh, dry place. Light washes over him, the cruel, blinding light of an alien sun.
The gate still gapes behind him, darker than a thunder-wracked sky. Little crackles of energy fizzle across the opening. It seems to him that the bolts of energy are forked tongues, flickering from the carven mouths of great winged serpents, whose coils tower above him, forming the great arch of the door. And somewhere high above, a serpent-eye, bloodred, fixes him in its burning gaze.
The gate—still a chance of escape.
He flings himself back toward the darkness and the curling fiery tongues lash out, binding him, spread-eagled across the gate. They sear into his wrists and ankles, a white-hot agony.
“Let me go!” he roars. He screams his rage aloud, yet no sound emerges. He is mute.
There are forms, vague and shadowy, looming up out of the intolerable brightness of the unknown sun. Strange, deep voices issue from his shadow-captors.
“Do not approach it yet. It is still too strong. Wait till it weakens.”
“See how it shimmers. Like a dragonfly in the sunlight.”
“Let me go!” he screams again, but still his plea goes unheard. And now he feels his life force ebbing from him. The harsh rays of the sun are draining it fast. He is fading. . . .
“Its light is dimming. We will lose it!”
“Wait!” That one voice again, which buzzes in and out of his consciousness, is commanding.
This terrible sun is searing the luminous liquid from his veins. The air is too thin; it is poisoning him. He is drying to dust, like a fallen leaf.
“Dying . . . help me . . .”
Anguish bleeds through him. He is dying here, alone, torn from his kin, against his will.
“Send it back. Look—it is in torment.”
“No!”
“The doorway is still open—”
“Then I will shut it.”
The bloodred glare is extinguished. With a sucking sound, the gaping rent seals itself—and his last means of escape is gone.
Frenzied rage shudders through him. What do they want of him? What possible use can they make of him? They will pay for what they have done. If it is the last thi
ng he does, he will make them suffer as he has suffered at their hands.
“By all the gods—what’s happening to it?”
“Stand back.” That cold, authoritative voice again.
“Can’t you see? We’re killing it! It’s in some kind of death-throes. We should send it back. Before we have its death on our consciences.”
“Daemon-spirit. Can you hear me? I can save you. But first you must give me your allegiance.”
“Never!” he cries back with the last of his strength—although he has no idea whether his tormentor can hear him.
Eyes stare into his. Strange eyes, not luminous and dazzling like those of his own kin, but small, fringed by flesh and curling fronds of hair. Ugly eyes, hardened by a hunger for power and dominion. This creature with the small, ugly eyes wants more than his allegiance. It wants to dominate, to bend him to his will.
To make him his own.
“He’s coming round.”
Gavril could smell the breath of his captor, foul with the reek of raw onion. He tried to turn his head away, and felt strong hands pressing him into the bare boards until his spine protested.
“Hold him down. He may attack again.”
“Let—me—go.” He twisted his head from side to side, desperate to free himself, but still they held him pinned down to the floorboards.
“Twenty-One.” This new voice came from farther away; it was crisp and businesslike. “I will give you a choice. If you give me your word not to attack my warders, I will order them to release you. If you cannot give me your word, I will be obliged to order them to shackle you and administer a sedative. Now—which is it to be?”
“No—more—sedatives,” he heard himself begging. Begging! How low had he fallen? He swallowed back the feeling of self-loathing that rose in his throat.
“Release him.”
The pressure on his arms and legs did not relax. “Is that wise, Director? You’ve seen how strong he is when he’s in one of his fits.”
“And I’ve also seen how drained he is when the fit passes. He’ll hardly have the strength to drag himself to his bed.”
The warders loosened their grip on him and moved away.
“Now just stay where you are a moment longer, Twenty-One. Skar—the appliance, if you please.”
A lean, sallow-skinned young man came forward and placed a crown-shaped metal device on Gavril’s head. He proceeded to adjust and tighten the device until it pressed hard into his temples. Director Baltzar bent over, peering at the contraption and checking it was secure.
“Take down the measurements, Skar.”
“What are you doing to me?” Sweat chilled Gavril’s body. He had the distinct impression that the director was planning some unpleasant medical investigation.
“Hold still, Twenty-One. I’m merely making some observations for my notes. Hmm. There.” The metal band was lifted from his head. “That will be all for now.”
Gavril sat up.
“Now, Twenty-One,” said Director Baltzar in a calm and reasoning voice, “that is the second fit you have thrown this week. Is there anything you can remember that might have provoked the seizure? Think back—if you can.”
“I have a name, not a number,” he said sullenly.
“The number is to protect your anonymity, Twenty-One, and the reputation of your family.”
“I have nothing more to tell you.” Gavril was not going to reveal anything of his innermost self to this lackey of Eugene’s, for all Director Baltzar’s kindly manner.
“I heard him cry out, ‘Daemon-spirit!’ ” put in Onion-Breath helpfully.
“No voices in your head? Voices telling you what to do?”
Gavril opened his mouth to reply, and then closed it.
“You can earn privileges if you cooperate, Twenty-One. How much exercise does Twenty-One take each day?” the director asked the warders.
“A turn around the inner yard in the mornings,” Onion-Breath said.
“That’s not enough for a young man like you, is it? I’ve seen how fit, supple bodies can decline in here without adequate exercise and fresh air. I have devised a healthy regime for our more compliant inmates that keeps the muscles toned—”
Gavril was hardly listening. One thought alone possessed him.
“Paint.”
“Paint?” Director Baltzar echoed.
“I am a painter. I want to paint. I want paper, charcoals, pastels, watercolors—”
“Privileges have to be earned,” grunted Onion-Breath. “Didn’t you hear the director? Don’t you think you should start by earning a shave? Look at you. You look like a wild animal.”
“Give me the razor and I’ll shave myself,” Gavril said, glinting a twisted smile at him.
“And I was born yesterday.”
“Good-day to you, Twenty-One.” Director Baltzar turned toward the door. “Remember what I said.”
Skar opened the cell door for his master and Gavril caught a glimpse of the landing and spiral staircase beyond. Instinctively, he rose to his feet, making a lunge for the open doorway.
Onion-Breath grabbed him in an arm lock and flung him back onto his narrow bed.
“He’s not ready for privileges, this one,” he said, shaking his head at Gavril as if he were a disobedient child. “He’s trouble.”
“Just let me paint!” Gavril cried after the director. “I want to paint!” The door clanged shut and he heard bolts shot, keys clanking as they locked him in again.
The next day Skar brought him a list of conditions. First he must agree to a shave. If he agreed to the shave, he would be allowed back into the inner exercise yard. If he completed the morning turn for a week without attacking any of the warders, he would be allowed some paper and a box of watercolors.
Gavril agreed. What had he to lose? But he wondered who had given permission for him to be allowed to paint again. The time lag meant that Director Baltzar must have consulted a higher authority. Had the permission come from the Emperor himself?
Gavril sat staring at the treasures laid out on the little wooden table before him, as a starving man stares at food. A ceramic mixing dish, several brushes of good quality sable and of different thicknesses, a lead pencil, a stick of charcoal, a jug of water, and a box of paints. He took out each little brick of compressed color, one by one, and examined it.
Madder lake, ultramarine, green earth, dark grey smalt, blue verditer, rich gamboge yellow, even—and he smiled wryly to himself—a square of brown dragon’s blood. Fanciful name, “dragon’s blood.” That, he knew all too well, was dark and purple.
But it was a good selection, full of possibilities. It must have been sent all the way from Tielborg or some other Tielen city where there were artists and shops to supply their needs.
And there was paper too. Sheets of fine quality paper with just the right texture to absorb a little of the paint, but also let it flow smoothly in a wash. He picked up the stick of charcoal and snapped it in half, a better length for sketching. He held the half poised above a clean sheet of paper, then glanced toward the door and the little round spyhole. Were the warders watching him, waiting to see what he would draw? Were they hoping for some clue to his secret, most private thoughts that would help them to break his will and make him compliant?
But the urge to draw became too strong. Let them watch. They would never understand. He wasn’t even sure he understood this compulsion himself. It was just something he had to do. Something that confirmed he was still Gavril Nagarian and not just a number.
The weak afternoon sunlight was fading and it was almost too dim to see. At Arnskammar, the setting of the sun meant another day was already over for the inmates of the asylum. Nighttime and the hours of darkness were for sleeping. Candles were a rare privilege to be earned only after months of untarnished behavior.
Gavril laid down his charcoal stick and looked at what he had drawn.
A great stone archway, carved out of twisted serpentine bodies, filled the first page. Winged serp
ents with cruel hooked claws protruded into the center of the arch, as though to rip to shreds anyone rash enough to venture underneath.
Once he had started to draw, it had seemed as if another will was guiding his hand. Only the skill, the bold style, the little details, were his own, giving substance to half-remembered snatches of dreams.
The second sketch detailed the top of the arch: a terrifying serpent-head, fanged jaws gaping wide, and a single eye staring malevolently. He had put one daub of color onto the drawing. A blob of vivid red, carmine and madder lake mingled, that made the single eye glow like a living jewel.
How can I have drawn it in such detail when I’ve only glimpsed it in dreams?
His suppertime bowl of soup had gone cold; little globules of fat glistened unappetizingly on top of the pale brown liquid. He had hardly noticed when the warder had brought it in.
Is it somewhere I visited as a child?
Or was it just his own fevered imagining, conjured from those words underlined by his grandfather in the ancient book in the Kalika Tower library?
Another legend relates how the priests of the winged Serpent God, Nagar, built a great temple, at the heart of which was a gateway to the Realm of Shadows. From this gateway they conjured powerful spirit-daemons to do their bidding. . . .
In the twilight, he lay down on his bed and stared at the barred window as the sky deepened from cloudy grey, streaked with little veins of sunset fire, to a rain-swept black.
A gateway to the Realm of Shadows . . .
Eyes stare into his, hungry for power and dominion. This cruel creature that holds him bound in chains of fire wants to bend him to his will. To make him his.
He cannot breathe the thin, barren air of this alien world. He feels his consciousness waning.
“You are mine, daemon. I conjured you from beyond the Serpent Gate. Now you will serve me.”