by Sarah Ash
He gathered the young woman up in his arms and carried her off toward the drive.
Linnaius watched him, leaning for support against the wall. He could still feel the dull, heavy pain around his heart and his breathing had not yet steadied.
Maunoir’s daughter. What did she really want with him? And was she the one who had attempted to break the wards on his rooms? Still, by the time she awoke tomorrow, he would be far away.
The palace clock chimed midnight; there was no time for such conjecture now. He was late for his meeting with the Emperor.
Eugene cast his mask and wig down on the floor and shrugged off the heavy purple robes. His valet discreetly whisked them out of sight and, used to Eugene’s habits, filled a washing bowl with fresh cold water.
“Gustave—I’m going hunting,” Eugene called, plunging his face and hands into the bowl. After being burned by Drakhaon’s Fire, he could rarely bear hot water on his face and preferred the rough shock of the cold. Besides, it reminded him of being on campaign. No luxuries, just the bare essentials a man needed to live.
“Hunting?” Gustave handed him a towel to dry himself, as the valet reappeared with a robe de chambre. “Shall I call the Master of the Hunt to make arrangements?”
“No, Gustave, I’ve had enough arrangements. I’m going alone.”
Gustave raised his eyebrows. “But, highness, is it wise, in view of the Francian fleet—?”
Eugene shot him a severe look.
“Not that I meant to imply in any way that your highness is incapable of looking after himself. It’s just that, should any emergency occur—”
“The Chancellor and the council will deal with it. What can happen in a day’s hunting?”
“Smarna?” ventured Gustave.
“When I return from my hunting,” Eugene said, unable to hide the exultation in his voice, “Smarna will no longer be a poisoned thorn in New Rossiya’s side.”
The nail-studded door to the Rossiyan treasury creaked slowly open, the sound echoing around the bare stone vault. Even as the Magus held high a lantern to illuminate the darkness, Eugene made out a dull red glow emanating from its deepest recess.
“The Tears, Linnaius. The Tears are glowing.”
He hurried ahead into the vault. The Magus followed, having first set a ward around the threshold to prevent them from being disturbed.
The imperial crown rested on a cushion of crimson silk in its crystal cabinet. As Eugene approached, he saw that the rubies glowed with a more intense radiance.
“The Tears of Artamon,” he said softly. “Here is our key, Linnaius, the key to unlock the Serpent Gate.” He released the intricate cypher-lock Paer Paersson had devised to protect his handiwork. Only one other living person knew the cypher, and that was Chancellor Maltheus. The crystal door swung slowly open and Eugene reached inside to take out his crown.
Linnaius produced a thin-bladed scalpel and began to prize apart the delicate golden clasps that secured each ruby in place.
“It seems a crime to ruin Paer Paersson’s artistry,” said Eugene. “He and his craftsmen labored long and hard to perfect these settings.”
“And he will be just as delighted to repair it for you, highness.” Linnaius placed the rubies, one by one, in a finely wrought golden clasp, cleverly partitioned to hold the stones close to one another.
“I feel like a thief in my own treasure vault,” Eugene confessed, “sneaking in at dead of night . . .”
“My concern, highness, is that the energy of these stones has slowly leaked away since they were divided centuries ago.”
“Ssh. Listen.”
A faint sound had begun, deep as the drone of a nest of bees.
“They may not still contain enough power to open the Serpent Gate,” said Linnaius, placing the final stone beside its peers.
A column of fiery light sprang out, like a swift arrow loosed from a bow, piercing the roof of the vault.
“But they will show us the way to Ty Nagar.” Eugene gazed at the glowing rubies. He passed a hand over them and felt a shock of energy tremble through his fingers.
The bonfires burned brightly, and the skirling of the wild music made Karila’s heart sing. Why should she have to go to bed when all the other guests were still enjoying themselves?
Marta kept a firm hold on her hand as they walked across the ballroom. Servants were clearing away the debris from supper: the smeared crystal dishes that had held elaborate cream-topped desserts, the delicate glasses stained with dregs of wine, the greasy chicken, guinea fowl, and duck carcasses, stripped clean of meat.
“Couldn’t we just stay for a few minutes more?” Karila begged, lagging behind so that Marta had to tug her along. “Please, Marta? I won’t be able to sleep with all the music playing in the gardens.”
“You’ll catch cold in that flimsy costume,” said Marta severely.
And then Karila saw Lieutenant Petter at the far entrance to the ballroom. She knew Marta saw him too, for her governess faltered in her determined pace. Karila had seen Marta behave strangely whenever they encountered the good-looking lieutenant, blushing and stammering over the most simple of greetings.
The lieutenant was coming straight toward them; Marta slowed down. He saluted them both, smiling. He was in uniform, not a costume, Karila noted.
“Still on duty, Lieutenant?” Marta said.
“No, I’ve just been relieved,” he said. What a warm smile he has, Karila thought. “And just in time to see the bonfires. Shall I escort you, ladies?”
“Well—” began Marta.
Karila seized her opportunity. “Yes please, Lieutenant!”
“But her highness is supposed to be in bed—”
“Please, Marta.” Karila used her most endearing voice.
“Just five minutes, then, no more.” Marta slipped her hand through the lieutenant’s arm.
The night air felt chillier now and a sharp little breeze had begun to tease the flames, whisking glowing sparks high in the air like clouds of fireflies. The smoke, carried on the breeze, irritated Karila’s throat and made her eyes sting. She tried to swallow down a cough, knowing Marta would march her straight back indoors at the slightest wheeze. But Marta only had eyes for Lieutenant Petter. They were gazing at each other, the firelight bright on their faces. The wild fiddle music and the singing and stamping grew louder as they approached the roaring flames. Were they going to jump? Karila was almost sick with excitement at the idea.
Close to the flames, Karila could see that the fire had been constructed so that it would do no more than singe the heels of those brave enough to jump across. Slow-burning coals lined the firepit, with just enough pine logs above to burn with crackling and orange-blue flames.
The smoke made her throat sore and she coughed, trying to smother the sound with her hand.
“Ready, Marta?” Lieutenant Petter grasped her hand in his. She lifted her skirts with her other hand. They were going to do it! Karila clapped enthusiastically with the other watchers as the fiddlers scraped, releasing a raw, soaring melody, full of grindingly dissonant double-stops.
Marta and the lieutenant paused a moment. Then he shouted, “Now!” and they ran forward, leaping high, the flames licking at their heels.
A rousing cheer greeted their landing and through the red-flame shadows Karila saw them lean closer to each other . . . and kiss.
A strange yearning overcame her as she stood alone beneath the star-dusted sky. The fiddle music whirled on, and the dancers leaped, dark silhouettes against the brightness of the bonfire. But she felt as if a spear of crimson light had pierced her heart. She took in a breath—and felt the pain again, as sharp as death.
The dancers were receding, the music growing fainter and fainter, the firelit gardens were dissolving into dark mists . . .
CHAPTER 33
Red light, crimson as a winter sunset, bathed Gavril’s fevered dreams.
“Nagar’s Eye,” the Drakhaoul’s voice whispered. “I can sense it.”
Gavril opened his eyes. He had fallen asleep in the ruined watchtower above the kastel. The stars were bright in the black sky overhead. But his vision was still stained with the bloodred light that had tinged his dreams.
“Someone seeks to open the Serpent Gate!” There was a new urgency in the Drakhaoul’s voice.
“What are you saying?” Gavril was not yet fully awake.
“We must go now.”
“Now? But how can I leave Azhkendir now?”
“Your druzhina are out of danger.”
“And how can you be so sure that it’s Nagar’s Eye you can sense? It could be a trap.”
“It could be. But can you deny me this one chance of freedom? The first since the Gate was sealed and the Eye stolen?”
Gavril heard the desperate yearning in the daemon’s voice. It had rescued him from a living death in Arnskammar and healed him. How could he deny Khezef his one chance of release?
The coach jogged on, carrying Andrei toward the port at Haeven and passage to a new life in Francia. Celestine, her head resting on a silken cushion, was still in a doze.
Although he had been up all night, Andrei could not sleep. He could think only of leaving Astasia behind. Marriage to Eugene had altered her more than he had imagined; in spite of her pleasure at seeing him, she had seemed dispirited and unhappy. He was half of a mind to order the coach to turn around and go back for her.
It was nearly dawn. Suddenly the grey skies turned red as a fiery light streaked across the horizon.
“What’s that? A comet?” cried Andrei, leaning out of the coach window.
“That’s no comet.” Celestine was awake now, gazing intently at the skies. “That’s not a natural phenomenon, Andrei. That light could augur the end of the world.”
He turned to her, thinking she was jesting, but saw from her expression that she was in deadly earnest.
Astasia woke to the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. The smell, usually one of the small pleasures that brightened her mornings, made her feel horribly queasy.
“Good morning!” said Nadezhda chirpily, bringing a cup to her bedside table.
“Take it away!” snapped Astasia, burying her face in the pillows.
“A little too much fruit punch at the ball?” said Nadezhda, doing as she was bidden. “Or is there some other reason, dear altessa?”
Astasia stayed where she was, face hidden in the soft silk pillows.
“All right, then, keep it a secret; although I’ve already a fair idea when we can expect the happy event. It would be about nine months from last—”
“Ssh, Nadezhda!” Astasia sat up and threw a pillow at her. “Nobody knows.”
“I guessed as much.” Nadezhda neatly caught the pillow. “I just wasn’t sure you knew. And once the Emperor hears of the happy event, the bells will be ringing in all the steeples between here and Mirom.”
“Oh, Nadezhda.” All the unhappiness Astasia had been holding in suddenly threatened to burst out. She put one hand to her mouth, trying not to sob. “This isn’t how I’d imagined it would be. Not at all. I feel so—lonely here. If it weren’t for you and Celestine—”
“Don’t take on so,” Nadezhda said.
“I even miss Eupraxia. Dear, fussy old Eupraxia.” At the thought of her governess, Astasia felt the tears brim over. “I’m not ready to have a baby, Nadezhda, I’m too young.”
“It’s a little late to be crying over it now.” Nadezhda handed her a lacy handkerchief. “There’s nothing you can do.” Mischievously, she held the pillow beneath her breasts, arching her back, mimicking a pregnant belly.
“Oh!” Astasia cried, outraged. “I should have you beaten for insolence!”
“So when were you thinking of telling his imperial highness? Don’t you think he deserves to be told?”
“Where is his imperial highness? I don’t see him here. He’s gone hunting.” Astasia had not forgotten her humiliation at the ball last night. “He does as he pleases.” Eugene had paid far more attention to Countess Lovisa than to her. She was still smarting. “For all I know, he’s . . .” She could not bring herself to say it aloud. With his mistress Lovisa. Her eyes filled with tears again. “He doesn’t talk to me, Nadezhda.”
“He’s the Emperor,” said Nadezhda with a shrug.
“How can I stay here?” Astasia whispered. “Among strangers? I want to go home to Mirom.”
Nadezhda came and sat beside her on the bed. She put her arms around her and gave her a hug. It was an utterly improper thing for a servant to do, but Astasia did not care. She clung to Nadezhda.
“I feel so alone,” she whispered.
The sky craft sped through the dawn, borne on a soft southern wind that Linnaius had conjured. Following the slender beaconlight, the Magus steered the craft far away from the cooler shores of Tielen toward the burning sands of Djihan-Djihar.
A shiver of anger went through Eugene as he remembered Astasia’s secret assignation at the ball. Was she playing him for a fool? It was behavior that seemed at odds with her usual conduct. He had thought her charming and naÏve, a little unsophisticated, maybe, but all the more endearing for that. But all these qualities had attracted many admirers—and an unscrupulous suitor could so easily play on her naÏvety.
Unless Lovisa was mistaken. Unless she had another motive in smirching Astasia’s reputation—
No. He had chosen Lovisa as Astasia’s secret bodyguard because she was unassailable in matters of virtue and loyalty. Perhaps he should have let Astasia in on the secret? And yet he had judged she would be safer not knowing who was watching out for her. Had his judgment been flawed, not trusting Astasia with the knowledge? Perhaps he had treated her too much as a child—and in doing so, had driven her to seek out more sympathetic company. And that thought alone made his heart ache with bitter regret. For it was too late now to change matters; what was done, was done.
He sat back, holding the velvet pouch that contained the Tears of Artamon. Little tingles of energy pulsed through his fingers from time to time, as though the power in the rubies could not be contained within either the golden casing or the velvet pile. And the farther south they flew, the stronger the pulsing became.
“We must be on the right course,” he shouted to Linnaius above the crackle of the wind in the leather sail. “The rubies are reacting like lodestones.”
Linnaius nodded. He was recording their progress on a chart, checking the faint beacon against both the fast-fading stars overhead and the rising sun.
“It’s time,” he said. “Time to bind them more securely together.”
Eugene took out a length of slender golden wire Linnaius had given him. He began to wind the wire around the rubies until they made one single stone again.
Each tremor of energy provoked a sympathetic surge of excitement in Eugene as he worked. This journey into the unknown was the most daring venture he had ever undertaken. It contradicted every rational thought. It went against every one of the enlightened principles by which he had lived his life. And he no longer cared.
The wind blew more gently now and it was a warm, moist wind, bringing faint wafts of unfamiliar smells: rich, ripe, and spicy. And with the warm wind came heat. Eugene undid his jacket buttons and reached for the water flask.
The Azure Ocean far below them had turned a deep tropical blue. Shoals of little islands appeared, their shores white with fine sand.
Linnaius began to sniff the air. “Do you smell that, highness?”
Eugene pulled a face. “That abominable stink? It smells like the pits of hell.”
“Volcanic fumes. We must be approaching the archipelago.”
Linnaius brought the craft about while Eugene scanned the horizon for any sign of volcanic activity. He spotted a faint trace of smoke, like fine ribbons of gauze darkening the brilliant blue of the sky.
“There!” Even as he pointed, he heard the rubies begin to buzz as though they were alive. “That must be Ty Nagar!” He could not conceal the throb of antici
pation in his voice.
As they sped closer, he saw the jagged volcanic cone rising out of the gauzy haze.
“Any signs of human habitation?” He looked down at the ocean. There was not a single ship to be seen, unlike the busy waterways around Tielen.
“Hold tight,” Linnaius cried. “We’ve hit crosswinds.”
The craft slewed suddenly to one side, then dropped like a stone. They went hurtling down toward the ocean. Eugene’s ears ached with the change in pressure; he gripped the flimsy side of the craft with one hand, the other clutching the precious rubies tight. If he was thrown into the sea, the rubies could sink to the fathomless deep and never be gathered together again—
“For God’s sake, Linnaius!”
They careered along the tops of the waves, spattered by flecks of spray, Linnaius steering erratically as he whistled in vain for a fresh wind to carry them.
“I can’t control her, highness—”
Eugene grabbed the rudder from him and, one-handed, steadied the craft.
Ahead he could see the volcano’s dark peak looming up out of the ocean, hazed by drifts of pale smoke. The foul smell of the vapors tainted the fresh salty tang of the ocean air. He thought for a moment that he could detect the faintest orange glow of fire around the rim of the cone . . . and then the billowing vapors again fogged his vision.
“What a magnificent sight,” he murmured. “What grandeur. What fearsome destructive power.”
Now the shoreline was visible, the sands as grey as cinders, with lush, dense vegetation behind, the leaves oozing moisture.
Linnaius brought the craft bumping down across the sands until it skidded to a halt and Eugene relaxed his grip on the rudder. His hands were sweating. His cramped limbs still felt the juddering of the craft, even though they had landed.
Heat hung in the heavy air. It was as if he had stepped into the steam room at Swanholm. He shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves; the linen already felt damp.