by Sarah Ash
Astasia closed the letter before the countess could steal a glance at it.
“Have her shown to the Music Room, please. I will meet her there in a few minutes.”
News? Astasia felt a sudden conspiratorial thrill. She went into her dressing room and dabbed cold water on her lids to try to disguise the signs that she had been weeping.
Celestine de Joyeuse was standing at the window in the Music Room, one hand resting on the exquisite marquetry of the fortepiano lid, gazing out at the park beyond. On seeing Astasia, she sank into a deep curtsy.
“What a charming room. If the acoustics are as pleasing as the decorations, this should prove a delightful musical experience.”
“Please rise, demoiselle,” Astasia said, smiling.
“I am so sorry to hear of your stepdaughter’s indisposition, highness. Would you prefer to postpone the recital?”
Astasia was only too aware that Countess Lovisa was still hovering behind her.
“You can leave us now, countess,” she said pointedly.
The countess bowed and slowly withdrew.
Astasia waited until she heard the double doors click shut. Then she hurried over to the fortepiano.
“You said you had something to impart to me,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Something of personal significance.”
The singer nodded her head. “Great personal significance.”
“So what is it, Demoiselle de Joyeuse?” Astasia felt even more uneasy now.
Celestine looked at her from clear, cool blue eyes. “Is there nowhere more private?”
Astasia looked back at her uncertainly. Never allow yourself to be alone with anyone, no matter how well you think you know them. Eugene had warned her. There are some fanatical individuals who would not hesitate to harm you or Karila if they thought it would influence me.
Celestine seemed to notice her hesitation. “And you are right to be wary. You have no reason to trust me, Empress. For all you know, I could be an assassin sent by the Francian court to seek revenge on the House of Tielen for past defeats.” She gave Astasia a radiant smile. “But I assure you, when you hear the news I bring, you will feel quite differently toward me. That, at least, is my hope.”
Celestine’s angelic blue gaze promised startling revelations. And Astasia found herself desperate to know what Celestine had to tell her.
“I have little skill at the keyboard,” she confessed, “but if I were to attempt to accompany you, perhaps you could tell me the news you bring between verses?”
Celestine shot her a shrewd little look. “An ingenious idea.” She lifted a book of songs from the top of the fortepiano and began to leaf through the pages. “Do you know ‘The Waterfall’?”
Astasia settled herself on the seat and took a look at the music. She pulled a wry face. “Too hard. All those running notes in the left-hand . . .”
“This one is just right. ‘Summer Evenings.’ A beautifully simple melody, a deceptively simple accompaniment. And in my native tongue, which is not so familiar to the Tielens, I believe,” she added with a mischievous little smile.
“I’ve never played this one before,” Astasia stared at the notes, biting her lower lip in concentration, “so not too fast, demoiselle, I beg you.”
“Don’t forget the key signature,” whispered the singer after her first attempt faltered on a clumsy dissonance.
Astasia felt herself blushing. “I wish I’d devoted more time to practicing my sight-reading,” she said, ashamed. This time, the opening phrase flowed more smoothly and Celestine began to sing.
“In summer . . . when the swallows swoop overhead . . .”
At first Astasia could only think about placing her fingers correctly on the keys. And then she thought with a sudden thrill: I’m making music with this gloriously gifted singer!
“Empress,” sang Celestine, “your brother is alive.”
Astasia’s fingers stumbled. She stopped playing. She stared at Celestine. “Andrei—alive?”
“Shall we keep the song going?” suggested Celestine gently.
Astasia tried to focus on the notes in front of her, but all she could see was a blur. Wrong notes and slips proliferated. Andrei is alive. Her fingers skittered wildly over the keys until, in an agony of excitement, she played a crashing chord and sprang up from the keyboard.
“Where is he? In Francia?” She could not hold the questions back any longer. “How is he? And how do you know?”
“He is in remarkably good health, all things considered,” Celestine said. Her expression was serious now. “He lost his memory after his ship went down.”
“He was badly hurt?” Astasia could not keep the distress from her voice. Even though she was Empress now and knew she must act with composure, this was her brother they were discussing, her brother whose death had made her cry herself to sleep night after night. “Tell me the truth!”
“We rescued a man from the wreck of a fishing boat. It was your brother. It seems that he was washed ashore nearly dead, and was nursed back to health by an old fisherman. The old man had no idea who he was, and renamed him Tikhon.”
“My poor Andrei.” Astasia felt sick and cold. Andrei, barely alive, clinging to life on some desolate wintry shore. “He must think we abandoned him.” The thought was almost too hard to bear. “I must see him. Where is he?”
Celestine did not speak straightaway. She gazed earnestly into Astasia’s face.
“My dear Empress, your brother finds himself in a very difficult situation. Your husband has taken the throne that was rightly his. If he were to come forward now, what would the Emperor do?”
“I’m sure Eugene would welcome him to court,” Astasia said in a rush of emotion. “For my sake.”
“Think again, imperial highness.” Clear blue eyes looked at her frankly. “Some dissident elements might see your brother as a significant rival to your husband’s authority. His reappearance could cause considerable damage to the stability of the empire.”
“But Andrei would never do anything to hurt me,” protested Astasia.
“The consequences could be disastrous,” said Celestine with a firmness of tone that surprised Astasia. She spoke more like a seasoned politician than a court musician. “He was very reluctant to have me tell you the news—let alone your parents—for fear it would place you all in an impossible situation.”
“But my parents should know. Papa has been a broken man since the news came of his loss. And Mama—”
“Even so, highness.”
Astasia began to wonder if there was some other reason for Andrei’s reluctance to declare himself. Was Celestine hiding something from her?
“Have his injuries changed him in some way? Tell me the truth, demoiselle.”
“His physical injuries have healed quite miraculously.”
“So where will he go? He can’t stay in a fisherman’s hut.” Astasia had begun to devise possible ways for Andrei to assume his rightful place at court. Suppose she hid him away at her parents’ country estate in Erinaskoe until she could explain to Eugene . . .
“His wish,” Celestine said, “is to see you once more and then to begin a new life. Far away from Muscobar.”
“How far?” Astasia stammered. All her joy at hearing the news he was alive was fast seeping away. She could not understand why Andrei wanted to go so far away from his family.
“I have a letter for you.” Celestine slid finger and thumb into her décolletage and discreetly extracted a thin sliver of folded paper from beneath her lace fichu. Astasia opened it, feeling the paper still warm from the heat of the singer’s body.
Dearest Tasia,
I am so eeger to see you and our parents. Demoiselle de Joyeuse will reashure you, I hope, that I am once again sound in mind and body. Let us meet soon.
Your loving brother, A.O.
The writing—big, bold, and untidy—was unmistakeably Andrei’s hand. So were the misspellings. She shook her head over it affectionately. “He was never much o
f a scholar.” And then she had an ingenious idea. It was inspired by the latest romance she had been reading: a stirring tale of passion, deception, and intrigue . . . but Celestine did not need to know that.
“There is to be a masked ball here at Swanholm for Dievona’s Night—a Tielen spring tradition, it seems. If I could arrange for you and your accompanist to be invited as members of my party—”
“For Dievona’s Night?” Celestine considered the proposition. “Well, my next recital is to be given in Bel’Esstar. The weather is clement and the seas are calm. If we delay our departure to attend the ball, I think we shall still make Allegonde in good time.” She looked at Astasia and smiled. “That’s a most ingenious solution, highness.”
“I shall provide identical costumes,” Astasia promised.
“And then you and I will secretly exchange masks for a little while, allowing us to smuggle your brother in, disguised as Jagu.”
Astasia smothered a delighted giggle. “Just don’t let anyone ask Andrei to play the fortepiano, or our charade will be discovered!”
Celestine laughed too. “And I will be Empress of New Rossiya! Or will I? For who’ll be able to guess?”
“We must wear powdered wigs to hide our hair color, in the style of the court of Bel’Esstar.”
“Great confections of white curls, topped with galleons—or doves.” Celestine was giggling too.
“I don’t know how to thank you, demoiselle.” Astasia had not felt so dizzily happy in a long time; she reached out and clasped the singer’s hands in her own, pressing them warmly. Since Varvara left court, she had lacked a friend, a woman of her own age to confide in. It was going to be such fun planning this escapade—and at the end of it, she would see her dearest Andrei again.
“Please, highness,” said the singer, pressing her hands in return, “call me Celestine.”
In her dreams, Karila could run as fast as any normal healthy child. . . .
How blue the sky is. And how warm the wet sand oozing beneath her bare feet. She runs along the white sands, darting in and out of the lapping tide, agile as the little crabs she sees scuttling to hide as she approaches. A flock of birds flies screeching overhead, their feathers bright as flame; one feather comes drifting down out of the sky and she jumps high to catch it. She holds it up to see the colors shimmer in the sunlight: It is streaked scarlet, orange, and gold. Laughing, she sticks her treasure in the woven belt around her waist. The other children will be so envious!
And then she hears the sound of distant gong-drums. Slow and solemn, pounding out a strong rhythm.
She gazes out across the sea. Other children run down onto the shore.
“Who is it?”
She can see a boat skimming over the sea toward them, its crew rowing to the steady beat of the drums.
One of the older boys gives a cry, pointing. “Look—it’s a serpent-boat. Hide!”
Now she can just make out the carved head of a serpent on the prow, painted in green and gold, with a staring bloodred eye and ravening jaws.
Another boy grabs her by the wrist. “Quick. Let’s go!”
She lets herself be dragged up the beach into the shelter of the trees. “Why must we hide?” she asks. “Are they bad men in the serpent-boat?”
The boys look at her scornfully. “Don’t you know anything?” says the older one, keeping an eye on the shore as the drumming gets louder.
“She’s only little,” says the other. He squats down beside her. “Haven’t you heard about Nagar?”
She shakes her head.
“Every year the priests come from the Sacred Island. Every year they choose children to go back with them. Special children.”
“Why?”
The older one makes an impatient grunt. He is still watching the shore.
“To serve the Serpent God.”
The Serpent God glares fiercely from the prow of the approaching boat.
“Suppose they don’t want to go?”
“If the priests choose them, they have to go.”
“Can they come home again?”
She sees the boys glance at each other.
“No one ever comes home from the Sacred Island.”
Never to come home again? She stares at them, horrified.
“Does the Serpent God gobble them up?” she asks.
The older boy shrugs. “Who knows? Now keep quiet. They’ve landed.”
Men with shaven heads have jumped down from the serpent-boat and are pulling it up the beach. Their white robes gleam whiter than the sand.
“Ti—lua! Ti—lua!”
She starts. She can hear her sister calling her name.
The boys put their fingers to their lips. “Don’t answer,” the older one whispers. “Don’t give us away.”
Linnaius silently opened the secret door that lead into Karila’s bedchamber. Marta sat in a chair deftly stitching a tapestry on a needlepoint frame by the light of the fire. The Magus sprinkled a few grains of sleepdust onto his palm and gently blew them toward her; within a moment or two, the needle dropped from her hand and her head nodded sideways.
Linnaius crept toward the princess’s swan bed. Karila stirred in her sleep. “Serve . . . the Serpent God . . .” she murmured.
Linnaius blinked in surprise. Was she dreaming? What did she know of Serpent Gods? He extended his hand toward her forehead—and then halted.
Eugene had expressly forbidden him to search her mind. Yet if his theory was correct, Karila was the key to the secrets her father so yearned to unlock.
His hand stole out again, fingertips resting lightly on her forehead. He closed his eyes, concentrating. He would not intrude too far; she would not even remember. . . .
Except there was not one mind here, but two! Two girls, one fair, one dark, staring at him, their faces blurring, merging, one into the other’s, blue eyes fading to black, and black to blue.
This was too complicated for him to unravel. This needed the skills of a shaman, used to walking with spirits and lost souls.
He gazed down at Karila. She seemed quieter now, as if his touch had calmed her, charming the last vestiges of fever from her body. But this other soul residing within her, this dark girl who made her dream of Serpent Gods, must be slowly draining what little strength she had. And with her weak constitution, she needed all her energy to keep alive.
“Sleep well, little one.” He gently stroked her golden hair. “I’ll keep watch over you now.”
The physician’s news was encouraging: Karila’s high fever had broken and she was sleeping peacefully. This had not prevented Eugene from going to check for himself before dealing with the affairs of the day. It was not that he did not trust Doctor Amandel, it was just that he needed the reassurance. Then he sat down at his desk to read his dispatches. The first was from Admiral Janssen.
The casualty list of those dead or missing in action at Vermeille Bay made depressing reading. Many were still unaccounted for. And as for Governor Armfeld . . .
“Let the Smarnans shoot him,” Eugene muttered. “He’s no use to New Rossiya now.”
They had lost the flagship Rogned, the pride of his fleet, and four men-o’-war. Two had gone down in flames in Vermeille Bay and two more had sunk as they attempted to flee the assault. The rest were limping back to the nearest Tielen dockyards at Haeven, many in need of weeks of repairs.
The loss of the Rogned grieved him the most. He had supervised the designs himself; he had visited the dry dock in Haeven frequently during her construction. The most advanced ship of her kind, she had proved as vulnerable as the rest to this vicious attack from the air.
And now with Janssen’s fleet out of commission, New Rossiya was unprotected on its southernmost shores.
He could not keep his eyes from straying to the map his cartographers had recently drawn of his new empire. Never before had it looked so clear: whoever held Smarna could control the Southern Ocean beyond Vermeille Bay, with its new trade routes—and protect the Straits from att
ack by sea. Smarna was still of vital importance. And Smarna still arrogantly proclaimed its independent status as a republic.
But he would win it back—by whatever means.
Kiukiu was hanging out washing behind Malusha’s cottage, the wooden pegs clamped between her teeth. Her fingertips were healing and she felt stronger today, heartened by the warmth of the bright spring sunshine. There were even flowers in Malusha’s kitchen garden as well as a dusting of pink and white blossoms on the apple trees.
Yesterday it had come again, that unsettling shimmer of daemon-blue, faint and very far away.
Malusha had felt it too.
“That cursed dragon-daemon is still at large,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s twice now we’ve both sensed it.”
Kiukiu nodded. Had the Drakhaoul taken possession of a new host? Was such a thing possible? And then a cold wind gusted across the moors, making the wet clothes flap violently, spattering her with drops of water. Her arms were suddenly pitted with goose bumps. She gazed up into the sky, rubbing her chilly arms, to see if a rainstorm was on its way.
A small cloud flitted across the blue sky.
“The Magus!” Had he come to redeem his promise? Was she to see Gavril at last, after all these interminable weeks of waiting? She ran around to the front of the cottage, almost tripping over the hens, and gazed eagerly about.
“Kiukirilya.” The voice came from behind her. She jumped. Kaspar Linnaius had appeared seemingly from nowhere.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that!” She put one hand to her breast to try to calm the wild thudding of her heart. Only then did she think it was maybe not so wise to speak disrespectfully to such a venerable Magus.
“Is your grandmother in?”
“Where else would she be?” she said. “She doesn’t leave the cottage these days.” She went to lead him inside—and felt Linnaius’s hand on her shoulder.
“I have news,” he said.
“Oh?” She swallowed hard. News never meant anything good these days. Had her request been turned down?