by Sarah Ash
“First Abrissard, now this. I will set a guard on this stair, day and night.”
“My wards have worked perfectly well—”
“Your research is of vital importance to the empire. This is a matter of national security.”
Linnaius gave a little shrug and opened the door. But in spite of his protestations, Eugene observed him checking outside one more time, his wispy brows furrowed in a puzzled frown.
The Magus had assembled an elaborate construction of pipes, filters, and alembics. A small refining furnace burned brightly in one corner. The air smelled hot and dry, with the slightest hint of some chymical taint that made Eugene’s eyes smart.
“The Drakhaon may have unwittingly given you what you seek, highness,” said Linnaius obliquely. “Nils Lindgren has made a vital discovery in Azhkendir.”
“Mineral deposits? Yes, I am aware of his mining activities.” Eugene wiped the perspiration from his brow. “How can you stand to work in this infernal heat, Linnaius?”
“At my age, when the blood thins, one is glad of a little extra warmth.” Linnaius picked up a glass dish containing some dark granules and handed it to Eugene. “Has your highness ever seen any mineral deposits like these?”
“This looks much like common garden soil,” said Eugene impatiently. He was not in the mood to indulge the Magus and his latest experiments; there were weightier matters to attend to.
“Hold it to the light, highness.”
Eugene lifted the dish until the daylight from the window shone directly onto its contents. Only then did he detect a faint bluish glitter emanating from the earth. “It’s very pretty, but—”
“Indulge me a moment, highness.” Linnaius picked up a second dish, which he set down on an empty laboratory table. Eugene squinted to see what this dish contained. It seemed to be but a few grains of a dark powder.
“Now, please hold this protective visor to cover your face. And stand well back.”
The metal visor contained a thick ochre-tinted strip of glass to look through. Eugene held it up and watched Linnaius light a little fuse that led to the dish. As Linnaius hurried out of the way, there came a flash of blinding light and a rending sound that bruised Eugene’s ears. The whole contents of the laboratory trembled and one or two glass phials shattered.
“Impressive,” said Eugene, his ears still ringing.
Linnaius opened a window and began to fan bluish smoke out into the air.
“So what goes into this new type of gunpowder you’ve developed?”
“I’ve merely refined the latest earth samples from Azhkendir that Captain Lindgren gave me.”
“Azhkendi soil?” Eugene went to look at the dish; there was nothing left of it but a charred stain on the top of the table.
“From the escarpment at Kastel Drakhaon.”
“Where my men died.”
“Burned by Drakhaon’s Fire.”
“And you’re saying that Drakhaon’s Fire has caused the soil to crystallize into this lethally explosive powder?”
“And the Azhkendi have no idea of its potential.” Linnaius seemed thoroughly pleased with himself; he kept rubbing his thin hands together.
“Even so . . .” Eugene felt a strange reluctance to approve the development of this potentially powerful weapon. Many men had died, their bodies vaporized by the infernal heat of the Drakhaon’s lethal breath. There had been no trace of his beloved Jaromir’s body after the conflagration. And this dark crystalline deposit had been dug from the escarpment. It seemed, in some way, like the violation of a grave, disturbing the mortal remains of the fallen.
And then he sighed. There was the security of the empire to consider now. He must put personal feelings aside and give his permission for Linnaius to start a series of experiments.
“Very well. I’ll make sure Captain Lindgren puts all his efforts into mining the escarpment.”
“Not just the escarpment, highness. Remember the Arkhel Waste, the site of Lord Stavyor’s kastel and estate?” Linnaius’s eyes gleamed with unconcealed greed. “Azhkendir must be rich in these crystal deposits indeed.”
They have made her bathe in a deep stone bath, in water scented with flower oil and sprinkled with flower petals. Her hair hangs in wet tendrils about her shoulders. They have dressed her in a clean white robe. They have painted the mark of the god on her forehead.
She can hear the insistent beat of the gong-drums again, the deepest notes thrumming like the pulsing of a heart. Her own heart begins to pound in rhythm with the drumbeats.
One of the priests approaches her with a bowl.
“Drink,” he says, smiling. “It will do you good.”
She sniffs the dark liquid cautiously; it smells sweet, like crushed fruit. The priest nods encouragingly. She takes a sip and then another; it tastes good; it makes her feel happy and very peaceful.
The pounding of the gong-drums grows louder. She can hear the priests chanting now, a deep, sonorous drone.
“Come with me,” says the priest, beckoning. When she stands, she feels dizzy and light-headed; when she starts to walk, it seems as if she is floating over the ground.
“Where are we going?” she asks, holding back.
The priest reaches out and takes her hand in his. “You are honored, Tilua. You are going to meet Nagar.”
Nagar, the devourer of children. She shrinks back, trying to jerk her hand from his. But now he grips it tightly and pulls her along. She cannot escape.
“No, no,” she cries out.
The air is hazy with incense smoke as he pulls her onward, past the musicians beating the gong-drums, past ranks of chanting white-robed priests, up steep wide steps, up until she stands beneath a great archway. A winged serpent of stone snorts clouds of smoke at her from the top of the arch through flared nostrils and fanged jaws so lifelike that, for a moment, she cannot breathe for fear.
And then she forgets her fear as the two priests bring out a young man, supporting him between them. His legs drag awkwardly beneath him, as though they have been broken and not mended right. His skin is pale, his hair golden-brown—and as he turns his head to look curiously at her, she sees that his eyes are blue as the sky. Who can he be, this stranger? And what do the priests intend to do with him—or with her?
“Nagar, accept this child.”
As the incense smoke swirls and clears, she sees a slab of stone beneath the archway. On the slab of stone lies a metal bowl and beside it, a curved knife of black, polished stone.
The priests move swiftly. They lift her and place her, struggling wildly, on the stone slab. The gong-drums din louder.
“No!” she screams. “I want to go home!”
The blue-eyed stranger cries out in some strange tongue she does not understand. He lurches forward, arms outstretched, as if trying to stop the priests, falling to his knees beneath the archway.
The priest who held her hand lifts the black-bladed knife.
“You are blessed, Tilua,” he says, smiling. The knife gleams like lightning in the smoke and sunlight as it descends.
She opens her mouth to cry aloud her terror and rage. But the jagged lightning slices into her throat—and her voice is silenced.
I want to live. I want my life. I want—
A crimson light washes over her vision, staining everything red, then dwindles to a single point of flame.
The world begins to fall apart. A rushing sound, like diving into deep, chill water, fills her ears. The priest’s face, the beating of the drums, the bright daylight, all are fading fast. Only the archway remains, looming over her, vast and dark. And a single point of red light still burns at its heart. It draws her in and she cannot resist.
And then she sees it. Its luminous body glittering blue like a star, it comes hurtling toward her through the whirling darkness.
Toward her, right through her, and as it passes through she feels it drain her of her life force, leaving nothing but a shadow, a sad, keening little ghost . . .
“Wake up
. Wake up, Karila!” Someone was shaking her, insistently calling her name. And she jerked awake with a cry, sitting up, staring around her in utter terror. Marta was bending over her, holding an oil lamp. Then relief overwhelmed her and she clung tightly to Marta as if she would never let go.
“Not another nightmare,” said Marta. “There now, it was only a silly dream.” She patted Karila soothingly. “Heavens, child, you’re soaked through. We must get you into a dry nightgown. What can be giving you these bad dreams?” She tugged the damp garment over Karila’s head, hurting her ears. “What have you been reading? Is it that book of old legends Duchess Greta gave you? It’s not suitable for a child your age.”
Karila badly wanted to unburden herself of her dreams. But she knew Marta would dismiss her fears and blame the toasted cheese she had eaten for her supper. Yet as Marta buttoned her clean nightgown up to the neck, she could still feel little shivers of terror.
“Screaming out like that, waking the whole palace,” Marta went on, briskly tucking her back into bed. “What will people say?”
“Don’t take the lamp away,” Karila begged. “Don’t leave me in the dark.” She wanted Marta to stay. She wanted light and familiar, comforting things. Most of all, she wanted her father. “Can’t you fetch Papa?”
“Great heavens, no, you can’t disturb your father’s sleep! I’ll leave the lamp. Just settle down now and think of your little pets in the menagerie. That’ll give you pleasant dreams.”
Karila huddled under the sheets, her heart still pattering wildly.
“Think of Pippi,” she whispered, trying to imagine playing with her favorite deer, with its soft coat and delicate legs. But the terrors of her nightmare kept invading her thoughts, driving away the comforting images.
And the luminous spirit-creature in the darkness beyond the archway—she knew it now.
“Drakhaoul,” she whispered into the pillow. “Tilua’s Drakhaoul. My Drakhaoul.”
“Die. You must die, Tilua, so that the dragon can live.”
Astasia hesitated in the antechamber to Karila’s bedroom. She had come to read a bedtime story—but from what she could hear, it sounded as if Kari was reading a story, a violent and unsuitable story, out loud to herself.
She crept a little closer and peered around the door.
Karila knelt on the floor beside her bed, with dolls lying around her.
“No, no, I don’t want to die!” Kari cried in a high, frightened voice, making one of her dolls, a raven-haired porcelain beauty, tremble as though begging for her life.
“The Serpent God is going to devour you!” This was said in a deep growl as she made the doll in her right hand advance menacingly on the other.
Astasia watched from the doorway, wondering what bizarre ritual Karila was enacting. And then she saw Kari take a silver fruit knife and attack the raven-haired doll, stabbing it again and again, making little cries and screams as she did so, until the stuffing began to come out and the porcelain head was nearly severed. Then the child daubed red paint over the doll’s broken body.
Appalled, Astasia could watch no longer. “Whatever are you doing, Kari?”
Karila looked up at her and said matter-of-factly, “It’s not real blood. Tilua bled real blood till she died. This is only paint.”
Astasia knelt down beside her and picked up the broken doll, shuddering as she did so. She had heard of dark witchcraft rites that involved such acts. Surely Karila had no malicious intent?
“Why did you hurt your doll, Kari?”
“It’s only a doll; it can’t be hurt,” Karila said, taking it back.
“What’s her name?”
“Tilua.” Karila absently stroked the dark hair on the broken doll’s head.
“That’s a pretty name.” Astasia cast around in her memory, wondering if there could be a Tilua in Karila’s life who had wronged her so cruelly as to provoke this violent revenge.
Marta came in, carrying a tray with a cup of warm cinnamon milk and a plate of biscuits. When she saw what Karila had done, she set the tray down with a bang.
“You’ll have no dolls left if you carry on like this, Princess. And no one will buy you new ones, just for you to break them.”
Karila appeared not to hear what Marta had said.
“Would you like me to read you a story, Karila?” Astasia reached for the gold-tooled book, searching for a calming, reassuring tale with a happy ending.
“More stories, highness? Is that wise?” said Marta. “Exciting an overactive imagination just before bedtime? I think we’ve had quite enough, thank you.”
Astasia closed the book with a snap. Another snub from Marta. Though she had to admit that Marta looked harassed and tired, with dark circles under her eyes.
“Has the princess been suffering from restless nights?” she asked in what she hoped would sound like a sympathetic tone.
Marta raised her eyes heavenward. “We haven’t had an unbroken night in weeks! I’ve told Doctor Amandel, but he just dismisses it. I’ve asked him for a sleep draft to calm her down. He says it’s unnecessary.”
“Would you like me to stay with her tonight?” Astasia offered. “So that you can get some rest?”
Marta glanced at her suspiciously.
“I’d be happy to. She is my stepdaughter, after all.”
“I’d like that, Tasia,” said Karila, letting the broken doll drop.
“I’ll be in the chamber next door if you need me,” said Marta. But something in her manner had altered; Astasia even detected a softening of the sharp, defensive tone she usually adopted in their exchanges.
As Karila snuggled under the sheets, she suddenly looked at Astasia and said, “I feel safe with you here, Tasia.”
“No stories, Marta said,” Astasia whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “but shall I tell you about some of the games I used to play with my brother Andrei when we were your age?”
“A brother,” Karila said with a wistful sigh. “I’d like a brother to play with.”
“Oh brothers can be very annoying! Once Andrei tied my hair to the back of the chair when I wasn’t paying attention, so that when I tried to get up, the chair came too.”
Karila let out a little giggle, which she smothered with her hand. “We mustn’t disturb Marta!” she whispered. “What did you do?”
“I waited to pay him back,” said Astasia. “I sewed up the bottoms of his cadet uniform’s breeches and the cuffs of his shirt, just before he had to go to the Military Academy for the first time. He was furious! And late.”
“I’d like to have seen him hopping about, trying to put his foot through,” said Karila, breaking into laughter. Her laughter was infectious and Astasia found herself joining in, glad to see Karila looking less anxious.
“Tell me more about you and Andrei!” demanded Karila.
“Not tonight, Kari.” Astasia bent forward and kissed her. “But I will place my own special ward around your bed so that you can sleep soundly.” She twitched her fingers twice at each corner of the swan bed. “There,” she said, settling herself in the chair beside the fire. “Now you’re safe.”
Astasia had almost dozed off in front of the dying fire when she thought she heard a door click open. Taking up the lamp, she went over to the swan bed, only to see it was empty, the covers thrown back. Yet the bedchamber door was shut.
Karila must have left by the secret passage.
Where can she have gone all alone at this late hour?
Astasia felt along the wall until she found the catch in the paneling that Karila had shown her once before. The concealed door slid open, letting a draft into the bedchamber that set the lamp flame flickering.
Astasia was not as adept at navigating the secret passages in the palace as Karila. She gathered her skirts in one hand and squeezed through the little doorway. But her only consolation was that Karila would make slow progress because of her twisted body.
Soon she spotted a pale little figure in the drafty darkness ahead. Astasia
hastened onward just as Karila opened another doorway and disappeared from her view.
“Wait for me, Kari!” she called. The doorway opened into an inner courtyard lit by lanterns; Astasia emerged into the starry night to see Karila limping away from her. “No wonder the child is always ill, if she’s wandering outside late at night,” she muttered as she hurried after her. “Is she going to her menagerie, to feed her little deer?” And then she stopped abruptly, seeing where Karila was going. “Or to the Magus? Is he working some spell on her?”
“Halt! Who goes there!”
Astasia heard a sentry bark out a warning. Karila had turned left, before the archway that led to the Magus’s laboratory. Catching up at last, she came upon an extraordinary sight. Karila stood, blinking confusedly in the torchlight, on the steps that led down to the Palace Treasury. Massive doors of timber and iron were guarded day and night by four sentries. And there was Karila, confronted by these tall, broad-shouldered soldiers.
“Kari!” Astasia reached her and knelt to put her arms around her. “What are you doing here?” Karila looked at her blankly from eyes that were opaque as shadow in the torchlight. She must have been walking in her sleep.
“Imperial highness!” The sentries saluted her.
“Where am I?” Karila seemed to be still half-asleep.
“Outside, catching your death of cold. Come with me.” Astasia took hold of her hand firmly and led her back toward the nearest entrance to the palace.
“Your daughter has been sleepwalking, Eugene.” Astasia sat down opposite Eugene at the little table in their private morning room. “Our daughter,” she corrected herself.
“What’s that?” Eugene was drinking coffee as he read the morning’s dispatches; he seemed preoccupied and was obviously not listening to what she said.
“I’m worried about her,” said Astasia. “She’s been having nightmares. She’s playing violent, horrible games with her dolls. And the servants have heard her talking to an imaginary friend. I think she’s lonely; she needs friends.”