by Sarah Ash
“Is this finally it?” he asks. “The Serpent Gate of Ty Nagar?”
Closer to, he can make out the forms of twisting snakes carved into the old stones. Fanged mouths snarl at him, baring forked tongues. He lifts one hand to touch the carven scales.
“This is the Gate,” answers the voice in his head, “but where is Nagar’s Eye?”
Gavril looks up and sees the carven head of a great winged serpent crowning the gateway. It stares balefully back at him from one empty eye socket.
“Without the Eye, the Gate remains shut.” The soft voice is choked with anguish. “Shut for all eternity.”
“What Eye? What do you mean?” Gavril cries out, his shout sending a flock of fire-feathered birds shrieking up into the air from the overhanging trees. “Have you brought us all this way for nothing?”
Gavril awoke in darkness, overwhelmed by a black mood of despair—and yet it felt as if the despair was not his own.
Those names in his dream, Ty Nagar, the Serpent Gate . . . He had read them somewhere before.
He sat up on his hard prison bed, suddenly alert.
In my grandfather Zakhar’s books. I’ve been reliving Zakhar’s last memories. The Drakhaoul must have planted them in my mind. Has it also left me the memories of other, far older ancestors?
He heard a quiet footfall on the stair outside.
He gazed up at the dark stripes of night sky that showed through his barred window. The prison day began early—but it was nowhere near dawn yet.
Was I shouting out in my sleep again?
A key creaked in the lock and the door swung slowly open.
“Who’s there?”
Someone held up a shuttered lantern, its single beam directed right in his face. Dazzled, he flung up one hand to shield his eyes.
“You’re to come with us.” Two warders had entered his cell.
“Now? But I’m not dressed—”
“Come as you are.”
Has Linnaius told Eugene that I am of no further use? Dear God, is this to be the end? Have they come to take me to some secret place of execution?
“At least let me put my shoes on.”
They hurried him down the silent staircase and out across one of the many inner courtyards. The night air was fresh with a fine drizzle; no stars or moon could be seen overhead. Gavril, dressed only in shirt and breeches, shivered in the damp. Somewhere, a prison hound bayed dolefully into the empty night.
They hustled Gavril into another tower. The room into which they brought him was empty except for an iron chair and a wooden trolley covered in a cloth. Gavril halted in the doorway, staring at the chair and the leather restraints fixed on the arms and feet.
“Torture?” he said. His voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “Do you mean to torture me?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Director Baltzar appeared. He was dressed in a brown overall and wore a bizarre headpiece with a single thick glass lens attached to it, not unlike a jeweler’s loupe. “No, I’ve brought you here to cure you, Twenty-One.”
“But I’m not ill!”
“Put him in the chair.” Baltzar turned away and busied himself with unwrapping the contents of the cloth on the trolley.
The two warders began to drag Gavril toward the chair.
“Just what do you intend?” Panic overwhelmed him. He dug his feet in, resisting their efforts with all his strength. “Leave me be!” He rammed his foot into one of the warder’s shins. The warder let go with a shout of pain, and hopped away, cursing.
The other kicked Gavril’s legs out from under him and pinned him to the floor with the weight of his body.
“Stubborn to the end,” Baltzar said with a shrug. “Hold him steady.” He came up to Gavril and, even though Gavril squirmed and turned his face away, pressed a cloth to his nose and mouth. A strong chemical smell issued from the cloth and suddenly the room wavered as all the strength leaked from his body, leaving him weak and limp as a marionette.
A strong light shone above him. He blinked, unable to focus in its dazzling rays.
Where am I?
He tried to move his head—and found that it was firmly clamped. A thick leather collar had been buckled about his neck so that any movement other than blinking was impossible. He looked down and saw that his wrists were buckled to the arms of the chair in which he sat. Another wide belt secured him at the waist. When he attempted to move his feet, he found his ankles were secured as well.
A shadowy form appeared above him and leaned in close to raise one of his eyelids.
He recognized Director Baltzar.
“So you’re awake,” Baltzar said. His voice boomed hollowly, as if heard through water. “Good. This procedure only works if the patient is conscious.”
Procedure? Gavril tried to narrow his eyes against the glare of the overhead lantern to see what Baltzar was about.
“Stand ready to swab, Skar,” Baltzar said. “You know how profusely these incisions in the scalp bleed.”
Gavril caught the glint of steel in Baltzar’s hand as he leaned forward again. Behind him he saw an array of scalpels, probes, and tweezers laid out on the trolley.
“What—are you going to do—to me?” Each word came out so slowly, as his tongue and lips moved sluggishly against the effects of the drug.
“We are going to cut into your skull to free the pressure on the part of your brain that has been giving you these delusions, Twenty-One. You call it your ‘daemon.’ But from my extensive researches, I suspect it is the result of some injury or disease of the brain.”
“No!” Gavril cried out with all his force. “The daemon is gone—”
“You will be so much more placid when we have finished the procedure. You may feel a little pain during the operation—but when it is done, I assure you, you will be an altered man.” Baltzar’s eye glinted through the single magnifying lens.
Terror surged up from deep inside Gavril in a black, choking wave. He had heard of the technique of trepanning and its frequently disastrous results. This self-styled doctor intended to cut into his brain. When he had finished with him, he would be no more than a drooling idiot, incapable of remembering his own name.
“Help me!” Gavril shouted, though he knew there was no one who could come to his aid. “Help—”
And then he felt the tip of the cold steel blade slice into his scalp. Something warm trickled down one side of his forehead—and was wiped away.
They are cutting into my head. They want to excise my daemon—but all they will do is amputate my memories, my dreams, all that goes to make me who I am. Why is there no one to help me?
And now he heard the sound of a small drill boring into his skull, felt the terrible juddering as the bone resisted the bite of the metal. Until, with a sickening crunch, the tip went right through, penetrating the soft tissue of his brain.
The lantern-lit room imploded in a chaos of colored shards and dark stars. And then there was only the darkness.
CHAPTER 16
Every day Andrei forced himself out onto the long expanse of empty grey sands that stretched into the distant horizon, shrouded in sea fog. And every day he managed to walk a little farther, as his damaged body slowly, miraculously, repaired itself.
One evening, much like another, Kuzko and his adoptive son sat on either side of the fire as Irina cleared away the remains of the fish-and-onion stew they had eaten for supper.
“You’ll be wanting to go find your own folks soon,” Kuzko said with a sigh, lighting his tobacco pipe.
“If only I knew where to start looking.” Andrei stared into the flames. “Or who they are . . .”
His name was Andrei. That much he remembered. But no more. There had been no clues in the waterlogged shreds of clothing that had clung to his body; the sea had washed them clean of any distinguishing marks.
“We know you’re a sailor and we know you’re from Muscobar.” Kuzko drew on his pipe, letting out a slow, reflective puff of smoke. “Otherwise we’d have
had trouble understanding each other, hm? But Muscobar’s a big country with plenty of ports up and down the coast. We’re out on the farthest tip here on Lapwing Spar. Land’s end, with only the Iron Sea beyond. Far from anywhere. Nobody bothers much about us . . . and we don’t bother them.”
Andrei frowned, concentrating his gaze on a stick, forked like a stag’s horn as it glowed white-hot, and then suddenly crumbled away to ash.
His memory, like the little island, was still shrouded in impenetrable fogs. Sometimes, in dreams, he knew he glimpsed familiar, well-loved faces and he would wake, calling out to them, arms longingly outstretched . . . only to find that the elusive memories had vanished again and he was calling out in gibberish.
“Now that spring’s on its way, I’m planning on going over to the mainland for provisions.” Kuzko tapped out the tobacco dregs and reached for his pouch. “Irina’s been nagging me for days. . . .”
“You’re running out of baccy, otherwise you wouldn’t bother to make the journey, would you, old man?” called out Irina. “Never mind whether we have enough tea for the samovar!”
“I’ll get news at the tavern,” continued Kuzko, ignoring her. “Now that the thaw’s under way, the merchantmen’ll be stopping off at Yamkha again. Any wrecks, up and down the coast, they’ll know. You come along too, Andrei. Maybe someone’ll recognize you there.”
Andrei shivered. And it seemed as if somewhere deep within his mind, a voice whispered, “No, not yet. It’s too soon. . . .”
Director Baltzar looked down at his patient. Twenty-One sat slumped in a chair, staring dully ahead. Skar stood behind the chair.
“Twenty-One?” Baltzar said crisply.
The patient did not even respond to the sound of his voice.
“How long has he been like this, Skar?”
“Since he came round, Director.”
Baltzar stroked his chin pensively.
“But there have been no more fits? No more shouting out?”
“He doesn’t seem too aware of anything.”
“Any fever?” Baltzar lifted the bandages around the patient’s skull, exposing the blood-encrusted stitches where he had sewn up the surgical incisions.
“A little oozing, a little pus from the wound, but it seems to be responding satisfactorily to treatment.”
Baltzar bent over the patient and lifted one of his eyelids. The man’s pupils were dilated.
“Gavril Nagarian,” Baltzar whispered, “can you hear me?”
Very far away, a voice calls his name. But he is lost, wandering along an endless grey road where everything is shrouded in fog and nothing is familiar. And then there is only the monotonous grinding throb in his head, a horrible sound that vibrates throughout his whole being.
Lost. Never get home. Wherever home is . . .
Never.
“Nagarian?” echoed Skar. “Is this the Azhkendi lord? The one who tried to kill the Emperor and his daughter?”
“You didn’t hear that!” snapped Baltzar. In his desperation to elicit a response from the patient, he had committed an unpardonable breach of confidentiality. “Remember the contract you signed? Everything you witness within these four walls is to be treated with the utmost discretion.”
“Understood.” Skar nodded. “But, Director, do you think the operation may have damaged him? By now, they usually show some sign of consciousness.”
“Are you impugning my methods, Skar?” demanded Baltzar. “I hardly think it’s your place, as my assistant, to question my clinical—”
“Director.” Skar pointed at Twenty-One. “Look.”
A single tear rolled slowly down the patient’s immobile face.
“He’s crying.”
Andrei waded back through the shallows, the cold, brackish tide lapping against his sea boots until he stood on the bleak pebbled shore, gazing after Kuzko’s boat, the Swallow, bobbing its way out across the choppy waters of the Iron Sea.
This was where it had happened. This was the place the lightning bolt from the rolling stormclouds had struck him.
That sizzling flash of blue fire had restored his powers of speech but scoured his memory clean of all except his first name. He could have a wife and children mourning him, yet he had no recollection of anyone but Kuzko and Irina.
“Why can’t I remember?” Andrei yelled to the distant horizon. “Who—am—I?”
A bolt of lightning suddenly scored through his mind.
“Ahh . . .” Dizzy, he staggered back up the beach, one halting step at a time, until he fell to his knees, panting, clutching at his head.
It was as if something within him was struggling to escape.
Irina hummed to herself as she pegged her wet washing to the line. There was a good drying breeze today, not so fierce it would tug the clean clothes from the line. The breeze would set Kuzko and the Swallow on a fair course for Yamkha—and the sooner he was gone, the sooner he would return with the much-needed supplies.
A man’s voice cried out from the shore.
Above the wet sheets and shirts she caught sight of Andrei coming back up the beach, saw him stumble and fall.
Poor lad. He’d made such good progress, but he still needed more time to regain his strength. The sheet she was pegging up was left dangling as she set out to help him. Then a sudden sea mist, grey as smoke, gusted across the narrow spar of land. Bewildered, she blinked, trying to peer through the billowing fog. Andrei was still lying sprawled on the sand.
“Andrei!” she called, her voice shrill with alarm. He made no reply.
Her heart started to thud. Why must the lad have a relapse now that Kuzko was gone? She hadn’t the strength to drag him back to the hut all on her own.
The sea mist swirled about her, yet not so thickly that she could avoid seeing Andrei start to twitch and writhe.
“Another fit?” The lad needed her; that was all that mattered. She gathered up her heavy worsted skirts and hurried down the shore toward him.
Andrei lay helpless on the sands, unable to move.
“When I found you, you were damaged almost beyond repair. And so was I, cast out from my rightful lord . . .”
Patterns of light pulsed across his sight. “But I read in your blood the trace of Artamon’s seed. It called to me. It revived me. So I have remade you, refashioned you as best I could. Yet you still resist me. Don’t fight me, Andrei, let me help you.”
Was this some kind of island spirit? It spoke of healing. What did it want of him? All he wanted was to remember who he was. Words formed in his mind—slow, clumsy words.
“Why—can’t I—remember? Tell me—who I am.”
“Andrei?” called a quavering voice.
Andrei opened his eyes to see the wrinkled face of an old woman bending over him.
“There now,” she said as if she were soothing a child. “You were having a bad dream.”
Kuzko had been gone for five days now, Andrei reckoned. Irina seemed unconcerned, busying herself feeding her chickens and working at her sewing.
“He’ll have met friends. He’ll be back when he’s ready. Gives me a chance to clean up after him, the old curmudgeon. . . .”
Sometimes she forgot herself and called Andrei “Tikhon,” the name of her drowned son. He never corrected her. It was such a solitary life for her here at land’s end. The nearest neighbors were over a two-mile’s walk away across the dunes.
A sudden shiver of restlessness went through Andrei. He set out from the cottage and walked up through the reeds into the dunes. A glimmer of pale, high cloud hid the spring sun. Beyond the calm, lapping green of the empty sea, the horizon was hazy with mist. The air felt softer today, milder. High overhead flew a skein of wild geese, honking exuberantly as they set out for their spring feeding grounds.
Two weeks ago, walking at this speed would have exhausted him. Today he felt exhilarated, hardly noticing the last, lingering stiffness in his mended legs.
“Ahoy there, Andrei!”
He spotted Kuzko’s
little boat and hurried down the shingle to help Kuzko pull it out of the shallows up and onto the beach.
“Thanks, Andrei,” said Kuzko, clapping him on the shoulder and gazing intently into his face. “Andrei, lad—” he began, as though about to ask a question.
“And about time too, Kuzko!” called out Irina. Kuzko let his hand drop away, turning to face his wife as she hurried down from the hut to greet him.
Andrei was eager, desperately eager to ask Kuzko what news he had gathered in Yamkha, but there were sacks of provisions to be unloaded first and a little keg that smelled strongly of spirits.
“Careful with that keg,” Kuzko warned with a wink.
“Did you remember my thread and needles?” Irina fussed around them. “And the beeswax for polishing? And—”
“All in good time, woman,” growled Kuzko. “You can brew us up some tea.” He tossed her a bag. She caught it and sniffed it, a broad smile slowly lighting her worn face.
“Real tea!” She hugged Kuzko to her and planted a kiss on his mouth.
“Cost me a small fortune, that did. Don’t waste it, now!”
Kuzko’s weather-wrinkled cheeks were red with a glow that spoke of hours whiled away in the tavern, and his eyes were bloodshot. Irina drew away from him, tutting.
“We don’t have a small fortune. So how exactly did you pay, Kuzko?”
Kuzko shuffled from foot to foot, suddenly embarrassed.
“A little favor I agreed to do,” he muttered. “For an old friend.”
“Favor?” Irina repeated loudly.
“You remember Baklan?”
“Baklan, the smuggler? Oh, Kuzko, you promised me you wouldn’t risk it again. You’re too old.”
“It’s only a little consignment to be delivered to Gadko’s. Andrei’ll give me a hand, won’t you, lad?”
Andrei nodded, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to.
“And if you get caught?” Irina was still cross; her foot tapped against the earth floor.