CHAPTER 21
“Karila!” Eugene cried, running down the candlelit passage toward his daughter’s bedchamber. His heart beating erratically, he flung open the door and went in.
“Imperial highness.” Marta, Karila’s governess, rose from her chair and curtsied. Her face was pale, her eyes dark-shadowed as if she had not slept in a long while.
“How is she?” Eugene heard his own voice as if from far away. “I came as fast as I could.”
“The doctors think she is past the crisis.”
Karila lay in her golden swan bed, fair hair spread in a tousled aureole about her head. Eugene knelt beside her. He watched to see if the sheets rose and fell regularly with her breathing, as he had watched so often before.
Yes, she was still breathing. Thank God.
How many times, in his worst imaginings, had he come to her bedchamber to find her lying cold and still, his child, his only child, all that Margret had left him? His heart was torn between the impulse to pick her up and hug her close, and terror lest such an action should disturb her healing sleep and provoke a relapse.
“Eugene?”
He blinked away the tears that misted his vision to see Astasia in the doorway.
“She’s sleeping,” he said softly.
There was a rustling sound as Karila moved her head.
“Papa . . .”
“Papa’s here, Kari.” Eugene took Karila’s hand in his own, feeling how hot and damp it was.
“Papa.” The sticky fingers clung tightly to his. “I saw it. I felt its breath.”
“Hush, now,” Eugene said, smoothing a strand of hair from her forehead. “Nothing to worry about. Papa’s here now. And Tasia.” He glanced up at Marta accusingly. “She’s still feverish. Rambling.”
“It called to me,” whispered Karila. “It called me its child. Drakhaoul’s child . . .” And then as if the effort had utterly exhausted her, her eyes closed and she fell back onto the silken pillows.
“Kari!” Eugene still clasped hold of her hand, pressing it between his own. “What do you mean?”
“Eugene.” He felt Astasia’s hand touch his shoulder, a gentle yet firm pressure. “Eugene, she doesn’t know what she’s saying. We should let her sleep.”
“Yes,” said Marta sternly, “she needs her sleep.”
“I’ll stay with her,” said Astasia.
“No need for that, imperial highness, I’m well used to caring for the princess.” Marta spoke with a certain chilliness, which did not escape Eugene’s notice. Marta had been Margret’s maid and confidante; it was inevitable, he supposed, that she should resent anyone he chose to supplant her mistress—even though Margret had died in childbirth eight long years ago.
He slowly let go of Karila’s hand and stood up.
“Call for me if there’s any change in her condition. No matter what hour of day or night.”
“Have I ever failed to do so before, highness?” Marta said. But there was no resentment in her voice this time.
Eugene went to take Astasia’s arm, but she drew away from him and walked swiftly from Karila’s bedchamber.
“Astasia?”
She did not reply, but kept on walking. She was obviously upset by Marta’s snub. He knew he should go after her and soothe her hurt feelings, but first there was the matter of the Drakhaoul.
Astasia hurried into her dressing room and locked the door behind her. She stood, back pressed up against the door, angrily sniffing away tears. She poured cold water into a bowl and splashed her face, dabbing at her reddened eyes with the corner of a dampened handkerchief.
What’s the matter with me? Why do I cry at every little slight, every insignificant upset? I knew this was not going to be easy.
She untied her cloak and sat down at her dressing table.
Eugene had not come after her. But what had she expected? He probably thought she was being petty and childish, and he had far weightier matters on his mind. Why should he notice if his wife’s feelings were wounded?
Besides, it was not so surprising that Marta had acted coldly toward her. Hadn’t she cared for Karila since her mother died? And she suspected Marta had never forgiven her for sneaking Karila out of the palace on that illicit sleigh ride—
Marta’s protective feelings toward Karila were understandable. But Eugene’s reaction—
Astasia’s fingers strayed to a pot of sugared almonds: vanilla, rose, and violet. She selected one and popped it in her mouth.
When the news of Karila’s collapse had come, Eugene had abandoned everything. They had traveled day and night to reach Swanholm as fast as possible.
At least he cares for someone. She looked up and caught the shadow of a wry grimace in her reflection.
“Yes. He cares for her daughter,” she whispered.
The flower-perfumed sugar coating the almond, usually her favorite sweet, tasted odd. Sickly. She spat the almond out into her palm.
A horrible thought entered her mind. Suppose someone was trying to poison her?
“No, no . . . I mustn’t think this way. I’m just tired after all the traveling.” Why would anyone hate her so viciously as to want her dead?
Drakhaoul’s child? Eugene hurried toward Linnaius’s laboratory, not even seeing the salutes of the guards he passed at each doorway. His thoughts were in ferment. Was she just in the grip of a vivid fever dream? Or was she still linked in some inexplicable way with the Drakhaoul?
“Oh Kari, Kari,” he muttered as he crossed the outer courtyard. “What did you mean?”
As he approached the Magus’s apartments, the lanternflames suddenly glowed with an intense brightness and the outer door swung slowly open to admit him.
A large telescope was positioned at an open casement window. On the desk, star charts had been unrolled: maps of the heavens, with the constellations marked out in silver and gold on a background of rich cobalt-blue.
“Welcome home, imperial highness.” The Magus appeared from behind the telescope.
“Gavril Nagarian swore to me that the Drakhaoul was dead!” Eugene cried.
The Magus nodded.
“And Director Baltzar reported that Gavril Nagarian was killed in a freak storm that struck the Iron Tower last week. So how is it that our fleet has been destroyed by something that—judging by the reports—is the Drakhaoul? What’s happening, Linnaius?”
Linnaius gazed at him, his expression disquietingly calm.
“Has Baltzar furnished you with any physical proof that Gavril Nagarian is dead? Surely there must have been some fragments of charred flesh, bone . . .”
Eugene leaned over the star charts toward Linnaius. “You said the Drakhaoul could not survive without a human host.”
“I still know too little about this aethyric daemon that calls itself Drakhaoul. Karila said it was dying when it passed over Swanholm. I can only conjecture that it may have bonded with a new host.”
Did Linnaius not understand what was at stake here? The pride of his navy had been destroyed. He felt the defeat as acutely as if a limb had been blown off in battle.
“And if my Southern Fleet had not been decimated, I could have let matters rest. But hundreds of men—good men—have died in Smarna. It has to be the Drakhaoul. Karila said so herself, tonight.”
The Magus looked at him, all attention now. “What precisely did she say?”
“She said it called to her. It called her its—” he stumbled over the word, not knowing until then how much it had disturbed him, “its child. What in God’s name does she mean? My own daughter!”
“So she is still in communication with it?” The Magus stroked his chin with spindle fingers. “Then who better to tell us who is behind this Smarnan business? Let me search her mind—”
“She has a high fever!” This plan had already occurred to Eugene and he had dismissed it. He could still feel Karila’s hand clinging trustingly to his; it would be unpardonable to force a sick child to use her nascent powers while she was so weak. “There must be another way to determine if Gavril Nagarian is dead.”
“Then there is no alternative but to look in the Ways Beyond,” said Linnaius.
Chiefs of staff were waiting for Eugene in the Walnut Anteroom. Spread out on the desk was a detailed map of the continent. An old map, Eugene noted wryly, showing each country in a different color: Tielen pale blue, Muscobar mustard yellow, and Smarna, rebellious Smarna, in an inappropriately innocuous shade of rose pink.
Little lead models of battle tents and ships marked the positions of the New Rossiyan armies and fleets deployed around the empire. Colonel Soderham, a silver-haired veteran who had lost a leg in Prince Karl’s Francian campaigns, was moving the models about the map.
“What are these forces here?” Eugene pointed to two model tents close to the border between Smarna and Muscobar. One was painted with the Tielen swan, the other with Muscobar’s two-headed sea eagle.
“That’s General Froding’s Light Infantry, imperial highness,” said Soderham.
“Froding?” Eugene looked puzzled. “What’s he doing in Muscobar? I thought he was supposed to be down in Southern Tielen on maneuvers.”
“Ah, but if you recall, highness, Colonel Roskovski asked if we might hold a joint exercise on Muscobar territory. To get the men used to working together.”
Eugene remembered Roskovski’s reputation rather too well; when the Tielen army invaded Mirom, the irascible Muscobar commander had put up a disastrously ill-planned defense. He suspected that a man of Roskovski’s arrogance would not listen to advice, even from the experienced and genial Froding.
“Pull Froding’s men out of there. Leave Roskovski guarding the border, if he must, but send one of our dragoon regiments garrisoned in Mirom to keep an eye on him.”
“Straightaway, highness.” Soderham saluted and murmured to one of his adjutants, who immediately sped off.
“And Froding?” Soderham asked, leaning over the map, ready to move the Tielen tent on Eugene’s command.
It was time to test his theory. If he had learned one thing about Gavril Nagarian in their last conflict, it was that his instincts to defend his people would override any concerns about his own safety.
“Let’s give the Smarnans something to keep them busy. Little forays and retreats—take a town here, a village there.” Eugene felt a sudden yearning to be back in the field with his men. He relished this kind of cat-and-mouse strategy, keeping the enemy guessing where he would strike next. “Tell Froding to split his men up into raiding parties. And keep them on the move.”
Astasia was still staring at the bowl of sugared almonds when there came a discreet tap at the the door. She hastily dried her eyes.
“Come in.”
A Tielen lady-in-waiting appeared. She had the translucent complexion and ice-blond hair of those born in the far north, and her eyes were of the palest grey-blue.
“Where is Nadezhda?” Astasia asked, surprised not to see her own maid.
“His imperial highness has asked me to attend to you while you are at Swanholm,” answered the woman. “I have assigned Nadezhda tasks more appropriate to a lady’s maid.” Even though her manner was polite, there was a frostiness about her that did not endear her to Astasia in the least.
It would have been considerate to have consulted me about this first, Eugene, thought Astasia, as the tears threatened to flow again.
“And your name?” She tried to stop her voice from wobbling.
“Countess Lovisa. I am cousin to his imperial highness on his late father’s side.” Her tone of voice grew frostier still. “I was presented to you at the coronation.”
“Of—of course.” But there had been so many Tielen courtiers presented to her that day, she could not possibly be expected to remember them all!
“I’ve come to tell you that the musicians from Francia have arrived, highness.”
“Musicians?” Karila’s sudden illness had completely put the musicians from Astasia’s mind. She had, in a moment of presumptuousness, it now seemed, taken it upon herself to invite them to Swanholm to perform for Kari’s birthday. She had been planning to tell Eugene of her little surprise, and now events had overtaken her.
“Where are they to be accommodated?”
“Accommodated?” She blinked her tears away, determined not to show any weakness in front of the countess. “Surely the lodging of our visitors is not my responsibility.”
“Indeed, no. But for Fredrik, our majordomo, to make appropriate arrangements, it is essential for him to know who is expected and when.”
Now her abilities to manage a great house were being openly criticized!
“And Demoiselle de Joyeuse asks if she might be granted a few moments of your time to discuss which of the various programs they have prepared you think would be most suitable.” Countess Lovisa handed her a paper sealed with an ivory ribbon.
Astasia opened the paper and saw not the expected list of songs, but a brief message:
If your imperial highness could vouchsafe me a minute or two in private, I have some news of personal significance to impart.
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 of 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 attack 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?
“The Emperor has graciously agreed to grant you permission to visit Gavril Nagarian.”
“Oh!” She let out a shriek of excitement. “Thank you, thank you, Magus!”
“You undertook a perilous journey to help his imperial highness. In recognition of that service, he has asked me to take you to Arnskammar.” There was even the slightest glint of a smile in the Magus’s pale eyes. “Just as soon as you have performed one more task.”
“Another task?” Kiukiu was unprepared for this new condition. “Right now? I—I haven’t finished hanging out the washing—” Her words died away under his stern gaze. “No. Of course the washing can wait. I’ll just tell Grandma—”
“Tell me what, precisely?” Malusha appeared, arms tightly folded.
“I have the Emperor’s permission to take your granddaughter to visit Gavril Nagarian.”
“That’s as may be, but you haven’t got mine.”
“Oh, Grandma, please—” burst out Kiukiu.
“And,” said the Magus evenly, “I also have been granted permission to take you to young Stavyomir Arkhel in Azhgorod.”
“I can take myself, thank you very much, I’m not so decrepit I can’t drive my own pony cart over the moors.”
Why must her grandmother always be so stubborn? Kiukiu gazed at her in frustration, wondering what would possibly make her change her mind.
“Then it would be a wasted journey,” said the Magus, “for no one is granted admission to the household without a special permit from the Emperor.”
“Please, Grandma,” pleaded Kiukiu. “You know how much this means to me. Let me go to Arnskammar—and then you can visit the baby.”
Marsh ducks flapped overhead in a ragged “V,” quacking rowdily.
“It would be about the right time to sing the Naming Song.” Malusha seemed to be talking to herself, staring toward the hazy ridge of the Kharzhgyll mountains. “And if he’s nearing six months in age . . .” Her gaze hardened, fixing on the Magus with stern intensity. “You can take her to Arnskammar, foolish girl that she is, but no good’s going to come of it. You’ll only upset yourself again, Kiukiu.”
“I know,” Kiukiu said defensively. Why did Grandma always have to spoil things?
“And you,” Malusha stepped down and came close to the Magus, jabbing one finger at him, “you take good care of my granddaughter. If anything happens to her, I’ll summon something up from the Ways Beyond that’s beyond your worst nightmares.”
“Grandma, please,” murmured Kiukiu, horribly embarrassed. If Malusha kept on baiting the Magus in this childish way, she was certain he would just shrug his shoulders and leave.
“Go get your cloak, Kiukiu. It’s cold in that sky craft of his.”
Kiukiu sped indoors. Her cloak was made of pieces of worn blanket that she had stitched together. It was far from elegant, but it would keep her warm.
She heard a shiver of wings and Lady Iceflower alighted on the back of Malusha’s chair, staring at her with suspicious golden eyes.
“You can’t come with me, Lady Iceflower,” Kiukiu said. “You have to go greet the new Arkhel lord. But watch out for his mother, Lady Lilias.” She raised her voice so that it carried outside. “She’s a nasty piece of work.”
The owl let out a small, curious hoot and swiveled her head right around, watching Kiukiu intently as she put on her well-darned mittens.
“I’m ready.” She picked up her gusly and went toward the door. Her stomach twisted with sudden apprehension. She was going to visit Gavril—and she must steel herself to see the changes that prison had wrought in him.
“Wish me luck, my lady. I’m going to need it.”