CHAPTER 32
The martial music swelled to a triumphant climax as the brilliant red fireworks turned the lake waters from black to crimson.
Eugene stared, amazed. It was as if Linnaius’s artistry had recreated the fiery column that had lit the sky the night the five rubies, Artamon’s Tears, had been reunited.
“Only the Emperor’s tears will unlock the gate.”
He had lingered too long; it was time he was on his way to Ty Nagar.
The military bands broke into the Tielen national anthem. And Eugene was obliged to stand at attention, hand raised to acknowledge this loyal salute until the last strains of the anthem died away.
The guests broke into spontaneous applause. Karila clapped too, her little hands batting hard against each other in enthusiasm.
Eugene turned to Astasia who stood demurely beside him. After the fireworks came the old ceremony of jumping the bonfires, after which amorous couples disappeared into the shrubberies.
“I have urgent business. Can you and Maltheus preside over the lighting of the bonfires?”
Astasia bowed her head in assent. She seemed very subdued; all her earlier exuberance had faded. Should he ask what was troubling her? He tentatively put out one hand to touch her shoulder—and caught sight of an elegant milkmaid hastening toward him from the gardens, waving a fan. He knew it was Lovisa, because she had not troubled to hide the color of her ice-pale hair. Damn it, what did she want now? Astasia was at his side; she had been there all evening, so there had been no opportunity for dalliance as far as he was aware.
“Excuse me, ladies.” He went out onto the terrace toward the wide steps to meet her.
Astasia waited until the last glow of the fireworks died. From the path, she could see Eugene’s tall figure on the terrace, Celestine at his side in her identical blue costume, Karila between them.
How odd, she thought. It’s like looking at myself from outside. . . .
And then she halted. Karila was sure to sense it wasn’t her!
She hurried on through the darkness, darting between the strolling guests, desperate now to reach the terrace before Karila blurted out the truth. She could just imagine that clear voice declaring, “You’re not my stepmama. Who are you and what have you done with her?”
And now Eugene was coming down the steps, making straight toward her! Had he seen her? Would he grab hold of her and demand an explanation in front of all the guests? She shrank behind a pilaster bearing a stone basket overspilling with ivies and crimson peonies, praying her deception had not been discovered.
Eugene was halfway down the steps when someone coughed politely behind him.
“What now?” Eugene cried. Gustave stood there, as plain in his sober secretary’s jacket as a sparrow among Karila’s exotic birds, holding out a silver tray on which lay a folded paper.
“News from Azhkendir,” he said in his most formal voice.
Eugene faltered, torn between Lovisa’s frantic signaling and reading the contents of the letter. He snatched up the letter and started toward her, stopping under the light of a flambeau to read what was written:
Lord Gavril has returned.
Nils Lindgren, Captain.
“Ah!” said Eugene aloud. He held the paper to the torchflame until it flared up, then collapsed to ash.
Astasia tapped Celestine lightly on the shoulder. In a matter of seconds, the switch was effected and Astasia, heart still fluttering like a trapped bird in her breast, took her place again beside Karila. The little girl was happily licking the icing off a marchpane swan. Astasia smiled and nodded at her stepdaughter.
Please don’t blurt anything out, Kari.
But when the swan was half-nibbled away, Karila lost interest and the swan dropped from her sticky fingers. Astasia had never been so glad to see Marta appear to take the child away to bed.
Karila began to protest. “But I want to see the bonfires, Marta.”
“You need your sleep,” said Marta severely. “You can see them from your bedroom window. Say good-night to the Empress.”
“ ’Night, Tasia . . .”
A little string orchestra struck up on the terrace; to Astasia’s dismay, she recognized the yearning strains of “White Nights,” her favorite waltz. The violins soared, the melody throbbing out across the dark gardens, high and intense.
Homesickness suddenly flooded through her. She had been so happy to see Andrei. But now that he was gone, she felt even more bereft, knowing that her marriage had divided them, sending him far away to Francia.
And where was Eugene? It was most uncivil of him to leave his empress standing on her own, without an escort, among all these strangers.
Through her tears, she stared down into the darkening gardens. Bright flames sprang up as the servants lit the first Dievona Bonfire, illuminating the parterres. There was Eugene—and he was deep in intimate conversation with a tall, elegant woman.
“Lovisa!” she muttered, clenching her fists till her nails dug into her palms.
“I haven’t time for this now, Lovisa,” Eugene said quietly. “You should be protecting my wife.” He looked up to the terrace and saw Astasia standing on her own. A little pang of guilt—an unfamiliar sensation—unsettled him. “Why is no one with her? I want her guarded at all times, especially in this crowd.”
“Can you be sure that woman is your wife?” Lovisa asked coolly. “I tell you, I saw two identical shepherdesses in blue on the terrace a moment ago. I signaled to you, but you were distracted by Gustave.”
“And for all I know, there are three milkmaids dressed as you are here tonight, maybe four.” Eugene was impatient to escape the festivities. This was no time for dancing or singing.
Lord Gavril has returned.
For all he knew, Gavril Nagarian was already winging his way here to Swanholm to take his final revenge. The security of New Rossiya was at stake—and he must act quickly or lose his hold over the empire.
The guests had grabbed torches and were gathering around the bonfires for the ancient ceremony. Florets of flame flickered and danced in the dark gardens, like fireflies. Servants moved among the guests, offering steaming glasses of hot punch to keep out the night’s chill. A lone singer burst into the time-old Dievona Night chant and soon many voices joined in, raising a raucous, full-throated paean to the ancient gods of spring. As the flames died down to smoldering ashes, the boldest (or most inebriated) of the youngsters would leap the bonfire, hand-in-hand, to ensure fertility and good fortune in the coming year.
He realized that Lovisa had been talking to him while his thoughts raced to Vermeille and far beyond.
“All I’m saying is, I lost sight of her for some minutes.”
“Yes, yes.” Eugene had no more time for the countess’s excuses and vague insinuations. He had to find Linnaius.
“And then I glimpsed them together. In the Orangery. He was kissing her.”
“Saw whom?” Eugene had only half-heard what she said.
“The Empress. Or a woman who was wearing the same costume. With a man.”
Now he heard her clearly. She was insinuating that she had seen Astasia in a compromising situation in the Orangery. His heart went cold. But all he said was, “Can you be sure, Lovisa?”
“Well, no, Eugene, but—”
“Watch her. And report to me again only when you have firm evidence.” He strode briskly away before she could say any more. He did not have time to deal with this now.
The strength of the singing startled Astasia. She leaned on the balustrade, listening to the voices singing in some old Tielen dialect she couldn’t understand. The bonfire chant had a raw, pagan quality, as if it had been sung under the bright spring stars for years without number since the dawn of the world.
A sweet, alcoholic smell, flavored with cinnamon and cloves, wafted under her nose. One of the servants was offering her a silver-handled glass of some steaming beverage.
“Hot Dievona punch, imperial highness?”
Hastily, she waved him away. The smell made her dizzy and nauseous and she grasped at the smooth-polished stone of the balustrade for support.
Why do I weep one moment and feel faint the next? I was never that kind of silly moping girl! And then she remembered. Her hands instinctively crept to cover her stomach.
His child. Our child.
Great cheers arose from the onlookers around the bonfire. They were jumping over the dampened flames, young men and their girls, hand-in-hand, shouting with exhilaration as they leaped into the spark-dusted air.
I’d like to run, to leap high over the bonfire . . . but whose hand would be clasped around mine? Eugene’s?
She saw him now, striding purposefully up the gardens from his rendezvous with Lovisa.
Is it true, Eugene? Did you order Linnaius to sink my brother’s ship, and all of Muscobar’s hopes with it?
He took the steps two at a time, as vigorously as a young man.
“I’m going hunting, Astasia.”
“Very well.” She looked back at him coldly through the eyeholes of her mask. If hunting was his alibi for spending time with his mistress, then she must play along with his little game for the sake of propriety.
I’m carrying his heir and he doesn’t even know it. Nor shall he! It’s obvious that his secret affairs are of far greater importance.
“Come,” Celestine whispered in Andrei’s ear, “now’s our moment; everyone’s busy around the bonfires.”
But Andrei stood staring at the flames. He did not want to leave his sister all alone in this foreign court. His heart, so light and happy at the start of the ball at the thought of seeing her, now ached with despair.
“What pressures did they put on you to marry him, Tasia?” he murmured. “What happened in those long months when I was dead?”
As in a dream, he saw men and women catch hands and leap the bonfires, transient as flickering shadows against the fiery brightness.
“Come on!” Celestine tapped his shoulder. “It’s too dangerous to stay. Someone might start asking questions. . . .”
“What would be the harm?” he said slowly, still staring into the flames, mesmerized by their brilliance. “Tasia needs me, Celestine. If all you’ve told me is true about Eugene—”
“Oh no,” said Celestine firmly. “No! Imagine what a difficult situation that would be. It’s not yet time for you to come out of the shadows. Though that time will come, Andrei. Have faith in me.”
She spoke with such authority that he gazed at her in astonishment.
“Who are you, Celestine?”
“One who has your best interests at heart,” she said lightly. “And now we really must be on our way.”
They reached the gravel drive where the coaches were drawn up, waiting; little stableboys ran to and fro collecting the fresh manure left by the horses. Celestine moved swiftly, searching in the darkness for their coach. But in the darkness, they all looked very much alike, the family crests painted on the doors difficult to distinguish on the ill-lit drive. Andrei followed slowly, unable to disguise his limp any longer; he had stood too long and was badly in need of a rest.
“Can I help you?”
Andrei hung back; he recognized the voice too well. It was Valery Vassian; ever the gentleman, he had approached Celestine, lantern in hand.
“I seem to have mislaid my coach and driver, Lieutenant.”
Andrei heard Celestine, adept at charming anyone she met, working her magic on Valery. He lingered in the shadows, listening, longing to speak to his old friend, yet not daring to reveal his identity. In a few minutes, the coach was found.
“Lieutenant, how can I thank you? I could have been searching till dawn and not found my driver in this crowd. . . .”
“My pleasure, demoiselle. I’m honored to have been of service.”
Andrei smiled, hearing Valery’s gallant reply; it seemed that Vassian had not lost any of his old-fashioned courtesy in the Emperor’s service.
He started out toward the coach. The ache in his legs made him clumsy. He reached for the door to pull himself up onto the first step, and his left leg buckled beneath him. To his embarrassment, he fell back onto the gravel. His wig came off, and the mask slipped awry. Before he could right himself, someone caught hold of him and steadied him.
He knew, without looking, that it was Valery. Eyes lowered, cheeks smarting with shame, he tried to avert his face.
“Andrei?” Valery whispered his name. “Andrei—is it you?”
Andrei turned, Valery’s arm still supporting him. “Don’t give me away, Valery, I beg you. For Astasia’s sake.”
“But—they said you were dead!” Valery’s dark eyes were wide with surprise.
“Valery, I am dead.” Andrei gripped Valery’s arm tightly. “Do you understand?”
Vassian nodded. He seemed stunned.
“Listen,” Andrei said, aware that other guests were approaching, “I want you to do something for me.” He leaned forward, his head close to Valery’s. “Look out for my sister. She’s so alone here in Tielen. And vulnerable.”
Vassian nodded again. “Count on me. But what—”
“Time to leave,” Celestine called warningly from the coach.
Andrei squeezed Valery’s arm gratefully. “Later.” He turned and hoisted himself up into the coach.
Vassian closed the door and saluted them. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant evening,” he called loudly. “I wish you a safe journey.”
As the coach driver guided the horses away from the palace, Andrei saw Valery still standing to attention, watching them.
“That was unfortunate. Can he be trusted?” Celestine said. There was a hard, merciless gleam in her eyes that Andrei had never seen before. “If not, an accident could be arranged . . .”
“That won’t be necessary.” He spoke with equal conviction. “I’d trust Valery with my life.”
“Very well. I need a sound alibi. And Lieutenant Vassian has just seen me leave the palace in my coach.” Celestine rapped on the coach roof with her fan. “Stop a moment, driver!” She opened the door and climbed lightly down onto the gravel drive.
“Where are you going?” Andrei asked, bemused. “I thought—”
“There’s one more thing I must attend to. Wait for me at the lodge gate. Drive on, coachman!”
Astasia raised her mask to wipe the tears from her eyes. She was vexed with herself for crying, even more vexed for caring enough about her husband’s indifference to cry at all.
“Imperial highness.”
She turned and saw Valery Vassian. There he stood in his New Rossiyan uniform, his brown eyes filled with kindly concern, the sole familiar face in this crowd of strangers.
“Speak to me in our home tongue, Valery,” she said.
He bowed. “Your highness looks tired. Your highness’s brother has asked me to look after you in his absence.”
Startled, she gazed up at him.
“Don’t worry; I am sworn to secrecy,” he said gallantly.
All of a sudden she felt exhausted. She was not sure if she had the strength to cross the terrace and reenter the palace. A strong arm to lean on was all she wished for.
“I am tired,” she said. He offered her his arm and gratefully she slipped her hand through. As they walked slowly away from the lantern-lit gardens, she said, “Thank you, Valery.”
She felt ashamed now when she remembered how she used to tease him for his clumsiness, how his face had turned a deep red at her unkind words.
“You know,” he said fervently, “I would do anything for you. You have only to ask.”
“Anything, Valery?” The Melusine, Andrei had said, in the harbor at Haeven. “Even if it meant deserting your duty here at the palace?”
A gaudily dressed pantaloon was bending over a bay tree, being noisily sick into its white-painted wooden tub. Kaspar Linnaius passed hastily by. These Tielens were too fond of their alcohol. They drank to excess, as if they might never see wine or aquavit again. Before the night was over, many of the guests would have to be carried to their carriages, insensible with drink. But long before then, he and Eugene would be far from Swanholm.
“Good evening, Magus.”
Linnaius started. A masked, snow-wigged young woman in a pale blue shepherdess’s costume had appeared out of the darkness. She was standing in the archway that led into his courtyard. Could it be the Empress? Astasia had been wearing a costume very like this one. And the woman’s voice, though light and young, was tinged with a foreign accent.
“I have been waiting for you, Magus.”
He slowed, wondering what possible reason the Empress could have for coming to see him here, alone, so late at night. Faint strains of dance music still drifted from the gardens, mingled with raucous bursts of cheering.
She lifted one hand to her gilded mask and untied the ribbons. Eyes of an angelic blue gazed at him; he recognized the young singer with the glorious voice he had seen earlier with the Empress Astasia.
“You have me at a disadvantage—” he began, stuttering a little.
“Let me introduce myself.” She peeled off the white wig, shaking loose her golden hair. “My professional name is Celestine de Joyeuse. But Joyeuse is the name of my singing-master, the man who adopted me, a poor orphan in a convent school.”
“This is all very interesting, demoiselle, but—”
“My real name is Celestine de Maunoir.”
Linnaius felt a dull shudder of pain in his breast at the sound of that name. “Maunoir’s child?” he repeated. “Impossible. You are too young.”
“I was just five years old when the Commanderie took my father. That was twenty-one years ago.”
Linnaius twitched his finger and thumb, making the lanternlight brighter so that he could see her face more clearly.
“But—my dear child—”
“I am no child, Kaspar Linnaius. After they burned my father at the stake for heresy, I was forced to grow up all too fast.”
Had she come for money? Or revenge? How much did she know? He could not tell from looking into her clear blue eyes. All he knew was that this conversation was wasting valuable time and that Eugene was waiting for him. And it was not prudent to keep an emperor waiting.
“This is fascinating, my dear. Let us arrange a tête-à-tête for tomorrow and I will tell you everything I know about your father.”
“I sail for Allegonde tomorrow.”
She seemed determined to speak to him. Which was unfortunate, as he would now be obliged to work some glamour upon her. It was difficult enough trying to keep Kiukirilya hidden without having to deal with this spectre from his past.
He moved closer, gazing deep into her eyes.
“Yes, I see the likeness now; your eyes are the same color as his,” he murmured. Her will was strong, and he could sense considerable resistance to his attempt to enthrall her mind. He slid his hand into the deep inner pocket of his robe, where he kept a few granules of sleepdust.
“And don’t try your mage trickery on me,” she said. “I took precautions to protect myself. . . .” Her voice began to trail away as the little shimmering cloud drifted down around her and she slowly sank to the ground, insensible.
Linnaius went for help and almost bumped into a tall young lieutenant striding purposefully back toward the palace.
“There’s a young woman lying in my courtyard; I think she may have taken a little too much punch tonight.”
The lieutenant followed him.
“Why, it’s Demoiselle de Joyeuse,” he said, kneeling down beside her. “I’ll take her back to her coach; the queue to the gate is moving very slowly.”
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 . . .