CHAPTER 27

Fire cones simmer in the ash-grey sky. A distant ominous rumble trembles through the air. The burning sands shift beneath Gavril’s bare feet and the dark sea sizzles with heat.

He senses he is not alone. He turns and sees a tall winged figure, wild-haired, clothed in shadow, hovering behind him. Eyes glitter in the smoky air, lightning-blue.

It is like looking in a mirror at his own reflection.

“Drakhaoul.”

“I have another name, Gavril. A secret name that must not be spoken aloud on earth—except by the one closest to my soul.” The dry voice, so familiar now, has taken on a new, more intimate tone. “Maybe the time has come to tell you my true name.”

“Then tell me.”

“My name is Khezef.”

“Khezef,” repeats Gavril. The name has an ancient, forbidden ring to it; it is resonant with hidden meanings. This is a kind of ritual, he understands now, the exchanging of names. “Why have you brought me back here? Why is it always here?”

“Because this is the Serpent Gate. The gateway between this world and the Ways Beyond.”

Gavril raises his eyes and sees in the lurid glare that they are standing beneath the stone arch carved with twisting serpents—the one he has painted in Arnskammar. The daemon gateway that has haunted his dreams.

“And because you are the one, Gavril Nagarian, who will release me and my kin from this world.”

“Is that really what you want?” Gavril is not certain he has understood the daemon completely.

“Look carefully at the Serpent Gate. What do you see?”

Now that Gavril stands so close to the great gate, he sees that the coils of the twisting serpents are wrapped around broken bodies, taut, distorted with agony, faces frozen in screams of perpetual anguish. Torn wing-shafts protrude from dislocated shoulders. Whoever sculpted the images must have worked from life to achieve such a realistic depiction of the tortured souls—

“No,” whispers Khezef, “look again.”

“They look just like you.” Gavril’s voice fades as he realizes the full horror of what he is looking at. “They are just like you!”

“When Serzhei called upon the Heavenly Guardians to destroy us, this is where he bound my kindred in stone.” A look of fierce sorrow gleams in the Drakhaoul’s star-blue eyes. “So that they might forever gaze upon the gateway to our home, yet never pass through and know again the joy of freedom.”

Another rumble shakes the ground beneath Gavril’s feet.

“If the volcano erupts once more, the gate will fall and we will be trapped here for all eternity.”

Gavril sees a strange look soften the fierce gleam of his daemon’s eyes. He remembers he has glimpsed that look once before when he lay helpless in Arnskammar, dying, and the one called Khezef came to his aid.

“How? How can I release you?”

“Nagar’s Eye. The ruby your ancestor Volkhar stole from Ty Nagar. Only that ruby will open the gate. Find the Eye and open the gate, Gavril. Then, I promise you, you will be free. . . .”

Gavril opened his eyes. It was dawn and a blackbird in the villa gardens was fluting outside his window. The fiery volcanic light still bathed his vision. Even his crisp white linen sheets seemed tinged with that baleful glow. And the Drakhaoul’s promises wreathed around his mind, as softly insistent as the blackbird’s song.

“Find my ancestor’s ruby? But where do I start? My father left no jewels to me.”

And then he remembered his mother’s portrait of Lord Volkh, painted here in the Villa Andara. In that portrait his father was wearing a magnificent ruby, crimson as vintage wine, about his neck. Where was that ruby now? Hadn’t she mentioned something about leaving it at Swanholm?

He found Elysia drinking her morning tea on the sunny balcony, cupping the delicate tea bowl in both hands. She smiled at him.

“What a beautiful morning,” she said, taking in a deep breath of air. “Can you smell my white lilacs? I look forward to that scent every year.”

“That ruby in the portrait, Mother,” he said. “You said you left it behind at Swanholm?”

She started, spilling a little of her tea. “Oh, Gavril. Whatever made you think of the ruby now? Is it really so important?”

“Was it at Swanholm? Think, Mother!”

She glanced up at him and he saw that she was blushing.

“It was made into a necklace, Gavril. And earrings. Count Velemir asked his jeweler to do it for me. Why do you ask?”

Earrings. And a necklace. It could take weeks, maybe months to track them down. He needed the rubies now.

 

Pavel walked out onto the balcony of the Villa Sapara. The morning sky was the intense blue that promises great heat at midday. He stretched and gazed up at the cloudless sky, feeling the sun’s warmth on his skin. It felt good to be alive.

Yesterday he had come close to death, far too close. He could not afford to be so careless again.

He sniffed, smelling the steam from hot, fresh-brewed coffee as Mama Chadi appeared, carrying a laden tray.

“Here’s your breakfast, Master Pavel.” She set the tray down and beamed at him.

“Thank you.” He smiled back. He sat down at the little ironwork table and poured coffee, strong and black, into one of his mother’s gilded porcelain cups. He was just stirring in a second spoonful of sugar when he heard voices.

“He’s at breakfast.” Mama Chadi sounded flustered. “If you’d be so good as to wait till he’s finished—”

“Good morning!”

He looked around and saw RaÏsa Korneli. Dressed in a simple white linen shirt and riding breeches, with the morning sun glinting in her short-cropped auburn hair, she looked deliciously ambivalent, neither girl nor boy.

“I’m so sorry, Master Pavel, but this young person insisted,” puffed Mama Chadi.

“It’s all right,” he said, rising. “Good morning, RaÏsa. Would you care for some coffee?”

“I’ll fetch another cup.” Mama Chadi shuffled back indoors.

“What a wonderful view!” RaÏsa went to the balcony balustrade and leaned over, gazing at the bay far below, the sea breeze ruffling her hair. “When all this is over, would you let me come up here and make some sketches? The quality of the light is remarkable.”

“So you’re an artist?”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t make that claim. I’m studying philosophy at the university with Professor Lukan. Painting is only a hobby.”

Mama Chadi shuffled back with a second porcelain cup and saucer.

“Cream? Sugar?” he asked, pouring coffee.

“Lots—of both!” She stirred the sugared coffee vigorously and drank it down in two gulps.

Pavel watched her, captivated. She was refreshingly different from the well-bred young Francian women he had been obliged to associate with in the last year—a free spirit, unfettered by the constraints of polite society.

“I owe you my life,” he said. “If you hadn’t spoken up for me, I’d be dead.”

She shrugged his thanks aside. “My brother shoots first and asks questions after. I try to reason with him. What’s the point in destroying our allies as well as our enemies? Besides . . .” All the vivacity faded from her eyes. “Our younger brother Miran is still fighting for his life in Colchise. The Tielens shot him outside the citadel. He’s a boy, only seventeen years old.”

He wanted to say something to console her. But looking into her stricken face, he saw that she was fighting back tears, and an ill-timed sympathetic word might break her courage.

“Better to keep busy!” she said, forcing a laugh. “There’s plenty to be done.”

“If there’s any way I can help—”

“You didn’t think this was merely a social call, did you?” She laughed again, more easily this time. “I’ve come to bring you to the university. We’ve had news. A Tielen raiding party’s sneaked in over the border from Muscobar.”

“Ah.” Pavel rose. “So our morning idyll is over.”

“I’d love to see the rest of the villa some time,” RaÏsa said as he led her inside under the wisteria-laden arch framing the door, sniffing in its sweet, mauve-pea perfume appreciatively.

“It needs love and attention,” said Pavel, saddened to see how the sunlight revealed the threadbare patches in the heavy brocades of lilac and rose, and the spots of mold darkening the rose-leaf cornices. “My mother has neglected it since my father’s death. Lack of funds, I’m afraid.”

“I love this salon.” RaÏsa spun around, arms outstretched. “You could hold dances in here.”

Was she as free with all the men she encountered? In truth, he couldn’t tell if she was openly flirting with him. All he knew was that he was enjoying this encounter, wondering where it might lead . . .

“Where’s Pavel Velemir?” demanded a loud voice in the hallway. “Take me to him.”

RaÏsa winced. “Iovan,” she mouthed at Pavel.

“You can’t just barge your way in uninvited,” they heard Mama Chadi protest. “You wait out here till I see if the master is free to receive you.”

Pavel threw open the double doors to see Mama Chadi jabbing a broom, bristles to the fore, in Iovan’s face.

“It’s all right, Mama Chadi,” Pavel said. “You can let him in.”

“Not till he mends his manners,” muttered Mama Chadi, lowering the broom.

Iovan pushed past her, face red with annoyance. “And what are you doing here, RaÏsa?”

“Waiting for you,” she replied coolly. “So, what’s the latest news from Ormalo?”

“An incursion. Over the border with Muscobar.”

“How many?” Pavel asked.

Iovan swore. “We don’t know. They’ve taken Ormalo. And now there are reports from Koshara. Looks like the Tielens are coming at us from all sides.”

“Eugene doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘defeat,’ ” Pavel said with a wry grimace.

“No one said it would be easy.” Iovan scowled at him. “But we know the terrain. Up in the foothills, we can pick ’em off a few at a time.”

“Listen to you, city boy!” RaÏsa let out a derisive whistle. “Since when have you become such an expert on the northern strongholds? You’ve never been farther than Colchise in your entire life.”

Iovan ignored the taunt. “So, are you with us, Pavel Velemir? Let’s see where your allegiances really lie.”

Iovan’s unrelenting hostility was beginning to grate on Pavel’s nerves.

“Give me five minutes to saddle my horse. Meet me outside in the drive.”

“Wait.” RaÏsa caught hold of Pavel’s arm. He felt the warmth of her fingers through his shirt. “Why don’t we go fetch Gavril Andar too?”

The name sent a little shiver of anticipation through Pavel’s body. Eugene’s nemesis, the deposed Drakhaon of Azhkendir. He could not believe his luck.

“That one’s trouble,” grumbled Iovan. “He goes missing for months on end, then shows up with some mystery weapon and wipes out the opposition.”

“I wasn’t asking your opinion, Iovan,” RaÏsa said sharply. “I don’t ask where he’s been or what he’s done. I only know he saved us.”

“Given the alchymical firepower of Eugene’s forces, we need all the help we can get,” said Pavel, and was rewarded with another scowl from Iovan.

“The meeting place is outside the Ormalo Gate in Colchise. One hour’s time. Bring your own water and rations.” Iovan opened the front door. “But travel light. We intend to move fast. Come on, RaÏsa.”

RaÏsa paused, gazing questioningly at Pavel.

“I’ll see you at the Ormalo Gate, then,” he said. “In an hour.”

He watched them untie their horses from the rail at the front of the house and ride down the lime-lined drive toward the upper cliff road and the Villa Andara.

All he had to do to fulfill his mission for Eugene was to make some excuse to use the Vox Aethyria and whisper the rebels’ plans to Gustave. Then he would take the first ship out of Vermeille and . . . disappear.

The sun caught burnished lights in her hair as she parted from her brother. Suddenly she looked back over her shoulder and waved to him.

And all of a sudden he knew with terrible, ironic certainty that he cared for her. There was something about her carefree manner that had caught his heart. If he betrayed Gavril Andar, he would also betray RaÏsa Korneli. It must be possible to stay with the rebels, yet keep Eugene’s agents satisfied with little hints that promised more than they delivered.

He caught himself smiling. Uncle Feodor would have been proud of him.

 

RaÏsa had heard Lukan talk of Elysia’s famous soirées at the Villa Andara. She had glimpsed it from the sands far below—another white stucco seaside villa, half-hidden by maritime pines. But now she felt suddenly nervous as she knocked at the door.

A smiling housekeeper showed her into the salon.

“Please excuse the disarray, Miss Korneli,” she said, “but we were searched by the Tielens and we’re still repairing the damage.”

RaÏsa gazed around. This salon had none of the faded grandeur of the Villa Sapara; the walls were painted in shades of linen and raw silk. But the paintings that hung on this plain backdrop were filled with color and light. Landscapes, imbued with the rich earthy hues of the Smarnan countryside; and blue seascapes, so watery you could almost dip your finger in them . . . She knew Elysia Andar was famed for her portraiture, yet these canvases showed another less well-known side of her gift.

“My mother calls these her ‘little daubs,’ but I think they’re her finest work.”

RaÏsa started. She had been so absorbed in Elysia’s paintings that she had not heard anyone come in.

“I startled you.” Gavril Andar stood in the doorway. “I’m sorry. What can I do for you, Miss Korneli?”

He looked haggard. His shadowed eyes had a strange glitter to them, as if he were suffering from fever.

“Are you well, Maistre Andar?” she asked, concerned to see him still looking so ill. Was this a wasted journey?

“I’ve felt better.” His mouth twisted into a gaunt smile. “It’ll take a while to recover from the Emperor’s hospitality.”

So he had a personal score to settle with the Tielens as well. What had he endured to make him loose such a terrible weapon on his enemies? There was a brooding silence about him that made her imagine they must have made him suffer all manner of atrocities.

“I’ve come to ask for your help. The Tielens have taken Ormalo. They’re sneaking in over the Muscobar border. Now they’re in Koshara.”

“Eugene is a stubborn man,” Gavril Andar said tersely. “He won’t accept defeat.”

“That’s what Pavel said.”

“Pavel? Who is Pavel?”

“Pavel Velemir. He’s another fugitive from the Emperor’s injustice.”

“Velemir?” Gavril repeated slowly. The name seemed to mean something to him.

“You know him?”

“No.”

And yet it seemed to her she saw a haunted look darken his eyes. There was much, she guessed, he had not told them.

“There are so few of us,” she said haltingly, “and so many of them. We need your help.”

He did not reply. Instead he walked slowly to the windows and gazed down at the bay. “Were you there?” he asked. “When I attacked the Tielen fleet? Were you in the citadel?”

“Yes,” she said, not understanding where this was leading. “I was on the ramparts. I saw the flash of light; I saw the ships explode.”

He turned around, staring at her with feverish intensity. “And have you, or any of those who fought beside you, fallen sick?”

“No, not as far as I—”

“You didn’t breathe in any of the smoke that drifted inshore?”

“Why? Is it harmful?”

Again, no reply. Instead he drew in a deep breath and said, “I’ll come with you to reconnoiter, not to fight. I think I understand Eugene’s tactics. And I think I know what game he’s playing. He’s trying to lure me out into the open.”

“Why you? Because of your secret weapon?”

“I’ll need a horse. My Merani is—” he stopped, checking himself, “is not in Smarna.”

She looked at him, overwhelmed with curiosity. Everything he said, these little slips and half-finished sentences, only added to the enigma.

“Meet me at the Ormalo Gate, then. In half an hour. I’ll have a horse for you. You can take my brother Miran’s.”

He accompanied her out into the hall. A painting hung near the front door, a double portrait, very naturally posed, of a man and a woman. The woman was sitting on a daisy-filled lawn, reading, and the man was leaning over her shoulder. It was an intimate portrayal, simply yet masterfully done. She had not noticed it before, but now she saw with a little shock that the man was Rafael Lukan and the woman he was leaning so affectionately close to was Elysia Andar.

“Oh!” she said. She knew—of course, who didn’t?—that Lukan and Elysia had been lovers. But this painting offered proof of the strength of their relationship. Her cheeks flaming, she tried to cover her reaction with a question. “Who painted this?”

“I did.” Gavril Andar was frowning at the picture as if he was not at all pleased with it. “I don’t know why my mother has hung it in the hall. It’s an early piece, done for my first year examination.”

“I think it’s charming.” RaÏsa spoke from the heart. Subject matter aside, the painting was very accomplished for an early piece. “It’s so fresh, so full of spring air and light—” She broke off. “You’re as talented as your mother. You should be painting, not fighting.”

And then, seeing the desolation in his eyes, she realized she had touched on a sensitive issue. “Listen to me, babbling on without thinking. I didn’t mean—”

“No,” he said. “You’re right. I should be painting.”

When she went to untether Luciole, she found that someone, perhaps the housekeeper, had thoughtfully provided a trough of water. As she rode away, she caught herself glancing back at the Villa Andara, shivering in spite of the day’s warmth. There were mysteries there—and they were all hidden in the darkness haunting Gavril Andar’s fever-bright eyes.

 

Gavril stood at an upstairs window and watched RaÏsa Korneli ride off toward Colchise.

Had he given anything away? His shoulders were stiff with tension, his fingers were still clenched tight with the effort of controlling himself. And when, without thinking, he had said Merani’s name, he had seen a sudden, vivid image of Kastel Drakhaon and the stables: young Ivar and Movsar playing each other at knuckle stones in an empty stall, jumping up with red faces when he appeared, running to saddle up coal-black Merani . . .

My druzhina.

Elysia had told him a little of the indignities the druzhina had been forced to undergo, chained together like slaves, made to labor long hours on meager rations, excavating deep underground for minerals to feed the Emperor’s munitions factories.

My faithful bodyguard—and I’ve abandoned you. The ache was almost too hard to bear.

“Who was that, Gavril?” Elysia appeared in deshabille, wet hair wound up in a towel, Djihari-fashion.

“RaÏsa Korneli. The Tielens have come back—over the northern border this time.”

He saw her face fall. “And they want you to go fight them? Gavril, no. You’ve done enough. You’ve exhausted yourself. Let the militia handle this one.”

“Mother, you know the militia is no match for the Tielens.”

She caught hold of his hand and turned it over, looking at the nails.

“Look,” she said, raising them to the light. A faint taint of blue had already begun to show. “Think of what you’ve done to the bay. Think of—”

“I know!” Angrily he drew his hand away. He didn’t want a lecture; he was only too aware of the risks of using his powers again. “I’m going anyway,” he said.

“Well, then. You have to do what you feel is right,” she said. Yet there was no criticism in her voice, only regret. “But take care, Gavril.” She reached out and briefly stroked his forehead; there was not enough hair yet to smooth back into place.

He flinched at her touch.

Don’t treat me as a child, Mother. I’ve done things you can’t begin to imagine—even in your worst nightmares.

 

It was already hot and Gavril was glad he had worn his old, broad-brimmed straw hat to shade his head. As he walked up over the brow of the hill, he saw the Smarnan forces massing outside the Ormalo Gate. Forces? Ninety or so of the Colchise militia on foot, another hundred or so of the national guard—and a ragbag assortment of eager students, volunteers, and other hangers-on, all ill-equipped with ancient muskets and hunting pistols. Three hundred at best, he reckoned. More than his druzhina, and armed with some basic firepower, but still no match for Eugene’s troops.

He spotted RaÏsa toward the front of the motley column, her rich auburn hair catching the light of the midday sun. She was in conversation with a tall, fair-haired young man. One of the students? he wondered.

She caught sight of him and beckoned him to join her. As he approached, the young man turned, shading his eyes against the midday sun.

“Gavril, this is Pavel Velemir; you remember I told you about him.”

Feodor Velemir spins around to face him, his eyes wide, crazed with wonder and fear. And then . . .

Gavril blinked. This Velemir was young, about his own age. The name could just be a coincidence. Maybe Velemir is a common surname in Muscobar. . . .

 

On the third day out from Colchise, the northern road began to climb, and the coastal plain gave way to the foothills of the far-distant ridge of mountains, the Larani Range, which acted as a natural border between Smarna and southern Muscobar.

They were called mountains, but to Gavril they were nothing compared to the terrifying splendors of the snow-capped Kharzhgylls in Azhkendir, looming up out of the Arkhel Waste. At this time of year there was only the slightest dusting of snow on the highest peak, Mount Diktra.

There had been little intelligence as to the movements of the Tielen invaders; there were rumors, odd sightings, but no verifiable evidence. Gavril had even begun to wonder if the earlier reports were nothing but Tielen propaganda, designed to lure them away from Colchise in order to retake the citadel.

These thoughts troubled him the most. Because that was what he would have attempted in Eugene’s place. And he knew that Eugene had worked that plan on him before, at Narvazh in Azhkendir.

Gavril rode alongside RaÏsa near the head of the column, with Pavel on her other side. The young Muscobite had engaged RaÏsa in conversation and was telling her entertaining anecdotes about life in the embassy in Francia. Gavril half-heard snippets about the ambassador’s lapdog—an overindulged pug who was apt to disgrace himself at soirées—and the ambassador’s younger daughter and her ill-advised affair with her music-master. He heard RaÏsa laughing, both delighted and shocked by Pavel’s tales of embassy indiscretions. And he found himself wishing he could chatter away so lightheartedly. He was poor company, he knew it. And this morning, as the heat increased, so did the black ache in his head—the last lingering legacy of Baltzar’s operation. Had he expected too much of himself too soon? Perhaps he should have allowed himself several days’ rest at the Villa Andara to recuperate. . . .

“Are you all right, Gavril?”

He glanced up, grimacing as the sunlight sent a stab of pain through his head. RaÏsa was regarding him with concern.

“There’s an inn up ahead. You could stop and rest.”

“Do I look that bad?” he said, forcing a smile.

“You’re not fully recovered from your wounds. I saw the scars, remember? I’ve brought powdered willow bark and feverfew. I could mix you a draft to ease the pain.”

Her concern for his well-being took him by surprise. He was just about to reply when he spotted a small whirl of dust on the horizon, coming toward them.

“Riders!” yelled Iovan. “Take cover!”

The Smarnans rode around in confusion; one or two of the horses reared and threw their riders to the ground.

“Far too late,” Gavril heard Pavel Velemir murmur.

“Where are our scouts?” Gavril scanned the road ahead. “Is no one up ahead?” Bogatyr Askold would have bawled Iovan out for such negligence, he thought wryly.

“Amateurs,” Pavel Velemir said with a little confidential smile.

“It’s all right,” Iovan shouted, “they’re friends.”

“Just as well,” Pavel said, “for we’d all be shot to pieces by now if they were Tielens.”

Gavril nodded. He had no reason to trust Pavel Velemir and yet he couldn’t help feeling a certain affinity with the young Muscobite. “So you’re a soldier?” he asked.

“Seven long years in the Muscobar Military Academy.” A lock of fair hair flopped into his eyes and he flicked it away carelessly. “I escaped into the diplomatic service. But you never forget what they drill into you.”

Iovan was conferring with the riders up ahead. Gavril uncorked his water bottle and took a mouthful, swilling it around before swallowing. All his instincts told him that he was the only effective defense the little column had against the Tielens.

He saw RaÏsa ride up to her brother, her face flushed with excitement as she joined in the council of war. To her, this rebellion was an act of desperate heroism—a glorious stand against the tyranny of a foreign despot. She was fighting for her wounded brother, fighting for her country—

She saw the glory. She did not see her own death—or that of her fellow students.

“The Tielens have taken Koshara,” Iovan said. “And now they’ve fanned out into the foothills.”

“What about the Larani Gorge?” one of the students asked. “We could lie in wait for them up there.”

“Who knows if they’ll come that way?”

“If we split up, we stand a better chance of taking them by surprise,” said Pavel.

Iovan frowned at him.

“Pavel’s right,” RaÏsa said.

“What do you think, Gavril Andar?” Iovan said bullishly.

“I agree with Pavel.” Gavril stared Iovan straight in the eyes, challenging him to counter the suggestion. “We need intelligence out in the villages, outriders to keep us informed of the Tielens’ movements.”

“As you’re so keen on scouting ahead, perhaps you’d care to go reconnoiter?” Iovan’s voice rang with scorn and resentment.

It was the chance Gavril had been hoping for, the excuse to separate himself from the others and assess the situation from the air.

“And you, Pavel Velemir, why don’t you keep him company? Rejoin us at Anisieli by nightfall.”

Gavril only just restrained himself from swearing aloud.

Pavel Velemir smiled in reply—a disarming smile, open and friendly. But Gavril could not bring himself to smile back.

 

They rode along without speaking, Gavril leading the way. He was following a stony track that, if his memory served him, wound past remote farms and hamlets, well away from the road.

Anger still simmered deep inside and he knew he must use all his self-control to contain it. Iovan had come close to goading him too far—and he was not sure how much self-control he had left in his current condition. And why, of all the rebels, had Iovan singled out Pavel Velemir to go along with him? He narrowed his eyes at the sun-baked countryside, seeing shadows from the past. He could hear Elysia’s voice, telling him about her doomed visit to Swanholm.

“Feodor Velemir duped me, Gavril. He was so charming and so earnest that I truly believed he had your best interests at heart. But to die such a horrible death—” She had covered her eyes with her fingers, as though trying to blot out the memory of what she had seen.

“I thought—I thought he meant to harm you.” The words had come out slowly, painfully, as he relived the moment. “How was I to know? I couldn’t take the risk.”

“Is Anisieli far?” Pavel asked suddenly.

Gavril started. He had been so absorbed in his memories, he had forgotten about their mission. “At the foot of the gorge. We should get there before sunset.”

Pavel Velemir took out a slender eyeglass and extended it, surveying the distant hills. “They won’t risk breaking cover in open country like this. They’ll have hidden themselves away.”

Gavril gazed at him guardedly. “That’s a useful little contrivance.”

“It was my Uncle Feodor’s,” Pavel said, offering it to Gavril. “It’s about all I inherited from him. Most of his possessions were looted when the rebels sacked the Winter Palace.”

Uncle Feodor’s. Gavril took the cylindrical tube and raised it to one eye, handling it as if it were red-hot. There were workers toiling away, tending the vines on the sunny slopes higher up. But there was no sign of the Tielens.

He doesn’t know that I’m the one who killed his uncle.

“Excellent magnification,” he said curtly, handing it back. “But I’d be surprised if the Tielens have penetrated this far into Smarna in so short a time, unless they’ve developed wings.”

“At least up here we’re spared Field Marshal Iovan’s tetchy little tirades.” Pavel grinned at Gavril, another friendly, open grin.

That smile awoke something buried deep within Gavril’s damaged mind—the memory of what it felt like to have friends, to share a joke, to be easy in someone else’s company . . . But because of the terrible thing he had done, he could never be Pavel’s friend. He was Drakhaon. And since a Drakhaon was not as other men, he must live apart, gifted and cursed by his dragon-daemon.

 

Gavril turned Capriole’s head away from the vineyards with their neat rows of fresh green vines, and rode up toward the higher, rougher pasture land. It had not rained in many days and everything was powdered in a fine reddish dust from the rich earth.

He had not traveled this route in some years. When he was fourteen or fifteen years old, Elysia and Lukan had taken a house on a wine-growing estate. All that hot summer they had played at living the country life: He and Lukan had gone fishing in the weed-choked little river that irrigated the vineyards and Elysia had painted, wandering off through the fields with her sketchbook, easel, and parasol. The sound of the cicadas whirring noisily in the trees brought back something of those lazy, carefree days. He could feel the cool mud squelching between his toes as he waded barefoot through the stony river shallows. And he remembered the luscious taste of the new grapes, bursting juicily sweet and sharp in his mouth. . . .

Maybe out here he could find the solitude that would help him start to paint again.

As Capriole jogged on upward, he saw himself in the overgrown garden at the vineyard house, brush in hand and canvas in front of him, putting the finishing touches to a portrait whose subject sat in the shade of the old olive tree, smiling at him, her fair hair catching glints of amber and gold from the dappled sunlight. . . .

Kiukiu?

How much farther to Anisieli?” asked Pavel.

“Not far.” Gavril, startled out of his daydream, answered him brusquely. “Two or three miles, no more.” He glanced back over his shoulder. The empty hillside shimmered in the heat of the late afternoon sun. Cicadas and birds chirped; flies droned. “Let’s give the horses a rest.”

On the brow of the hill, a clump of chestnuts promised some welcome shade. Gavril dismounted and tied Capriole on a long tether so that she could graze on the short grass beneath the trees. Then he walked to the farthest side of the hilltop and gazed out over the next valley, wanting to be alone with his thoughts.

There was no denying it. He had caught himself daydreaming about Kiukiu. Painting Kiukiu, he corrected himself. And an aching feeling of longing swept over him like a drowning wave. As soon as they flushed out Eugene’s troops, he would leave the rebels to finish the job, and set off for Azhkendir.

Pavel offered him his flask. “Watered wine?”

Gavril’s head throbbed at the thought. “No. I have a headache from the sun.”

He sat down and took out his water bottle, drinking a long draft to relieve the dryness of his mouth and throat.

“She’s quite something, that Korneli girl,” Pavel said idly. “Worth a hundred of those insipid convent-educated girls in Mirom. I’d like to see some of them cut their hair and go riding bareback in their brother’s borrowed clothes!”

Gavril stared at him from under close-drawn brows. He had been so long in solitary confinement in the Iron Tower that he had almost forgotten how to participate in this kind of idle, companionable conversation.

“Of course, in Mirom, such bold behavior would ruin her chances in society. ‘By all means, make her your mistress,’ my mother would say, ‘but she’s utterly unsuitable as a bride.’ ”

“And do you intend to follow your mother’s advice?”

“I heard a rumor that she has eyes only for Rafael Lukan.”

“Lukan?”

“He’s old enough to be her father, but some girls prefer older men.” Pavel lay back on the dry grass, gazing up at the sky. “My Uncle Feodor could vouch for that. He was always having to extricate himself from some intrigue with the Grand Duchess’s ladies-in-waiting. Means you and I have to work twice as hard to impress—”

Gavril heard the distant crack and rattle of carbine fire, far-off but unmistakeable. He was on his feet in an instant, listening intently. “What’s that?”

“Gunfire.” Pavel leaped up.

“Sounds as if the Tielens have reached Anisieli before us.”

Had the Tielens been shadowing Iovan and his men all this time? Or had they just run into a raiding party by chance? Whatever the circumstances, Gavril didn’t rate the rebels’ chances too highly. And RaÏsa would be caught in the ambush.

“Come on.” Pavel hurried toward the horses.

Gavril hung back, torn. If he rode with Pavel, he would never reach the rebels in time to help.

“Ahh!” He clutched his head with both hands, half-acting, half in earnest. He dropped to his knees, doubling up as if in pain.

“What’s wrong?” Pavel was in the saddle already.

“You go ahead. I’ll—catch up.”

“You look dreadful.”

“Head wound. It’ll pass. Just go!”

The sound of shots came again, echoing through the green valley.

Pavel hesitated another second, then kicked his heels into his horse’s glossy flanks. Gavril opened one eye and saw him ride down the other side of the hill.

“Drakhaoul,” he muttered as he got to his feet, “can you hear me? They need us.”

Even now he might be too late to save them. He cast aside his water bottle and hat and ran toward the edge, leaping up into the air, arms spread wide.

“Khezef!” he cried. “Now!”

The air whirled about him, dark as a tornado. He felt a tremor go twisting through his whole body.

“I hear you!”

Wings burst from his daemon-altered body, wrenching his shoulders and arms until he felt they would be torn from their sockets. Flight, as he powered upward, was utter agony, working every strained sinew and muscle till they burned.

And then it became sheer ecstasy as he forgot the physical pain and skimmed into the blue of the summer sky, riding the air currents, swooping down over the hill he and Capriole had toiled up in the heat, with the cool wind behind him.

The crack of carbines rose from far below. He spotted little puffs of white smoke first—and then a sight far worse. The rebel column was surrounded. He smelled blood, and the horribly familiar acrid stink of Linnaius’s alchymical gunpowder.

There were at least a hundred Tielens in the raiding party, and from the air, he knew instantly that they had sprung their ambush with military precision. He could see bodies on the road, horses and men. Some were trying to crawl away; others had adopted defensive positions in a ditch.

RaÏsa. Where was RaÏsa?

He circled high above, searching for a glimpse of her bright hair, dreading to see her slender body lying sprawled among the dead. Then he saw her. She was crouched behind an upturned munitions cart, frantically ramming shot into her pistols.

“Fire!” a Tielen voice yelled, and another round of mortar shells exploded among the fleeing rebels.

“Get down, RaÏsa!” he cried out. Buffeted by the rush of burning air as shrapnel burst in the air, he turned, readying himself to strike back.

Had she survived that last blast? Smoke billowed across the road. The upturned cart was on fire; it had taken a direct hit.

Rage burned through his whole body. If they had killed her—

His powers were still not fully restored after Vermeille Bay. But in the heat and smoke of the melee, no one had noticed him overhead. He had that advantage, at least.

The Tielens had positioned their mortars behind a dry stone wall, all that remained of a shepherd’s summer hut.

The Drakhaon narrowed his eyes. Take out the artillery.

As he dove down, the air rushing past him, his Drakhaon-body snaking through the sky, he felt nothing but the fierce, exultant joy of battle.

Blue fire seared the row of mortars. Smoke filled the air.

Splinters of stone exploded as the wall collapsed. The blast blew him off course; he slewed around in midair, shadow-wings beating a hot, dry wind toward the fleeing Tielens.

From below he heard screams of fear.

A Tielen trumpeter blew a ragged retreat. A few soldiers, their uniforms besmirched and tattered, staggered away.

“Let them go.” Already he knew he had overstretched his resources; he felt weak and dizzy, his power spent. “Let them tell the Emperor what they saw. Much good it will do him . . .”

The wing-beats came more slowly now, each one a juddering effort that wracked his whole body. He began to spiral downward, searching for a place to land where no one would see him.

He alighted on a grassy hillside, screened from the road by tall hornbeams, thudding onto his knees and hands as the glamour faded from his body, leaving him a shuddering, defenseless man again, his clothes all torn to tatters.

“Why am I still so weak, Drakhaoul?” he whispered, toppling slowly forward onto his face in the coarse grass.

“You are weak because you refuse to replenish yourself,” came back the hoarse, smoke-voiced reply. “If you don’t find nourishment soon, you will lose the power to sustain me.”

“Must . . . be some other way.” Gavril dug his nails deep into the coarse grass as the first surge of nausea washed through his depleted body.

“You were dying when I rescued you. Even I cannot save you this time. You must feed—or die.”

“No . . .” Gavril mouthed the denial, his lips pressing into the grass.

“It’s a good thing you brought a change of clothes.”

Gavril opened his eyes and saw Pavel Velemir standing over him, holding his pack.

“Here.” Pavel threw the pack down beside him. “You’d better put these on.”

Damn. Pavel Velemir was the last person in all Smarna he wanted to find him in this condition. He tried to push himself up but fell down again.

“Water . . .”

“You’re in pretty poor shape, aren’t you?” Pavel squatted down beside him and held his water bottle to his lips. The acid taste of the watered wine made Gavril choke—but after he had swallowed a mouthful or two, his head felt less muzzy and he sat up, reaching for his clothes.

“So what happened?”

Was that an ironic question? Gavril, wearily trying to fasten his breeches, looked quizzically at Pavel.

“How about—I was caught in the blast of a Tielen mortar and my clothes were all blown to ribbons.”

“It might have to do,” Pavel said. “They’re in such confusion, they’ll probably believe you.”

“But you don’t.” Had Pavel guessed everything? How much had he seen? And what had he been told of his uncle’s death? The official version might be quite different from the facts; the Tielen clerks might have found it impossible to write that “Feodor Velemir was burned to death by a dragon-daemon.”

“I only know what I saw. Perhaps I’m suffering from heatstroke. Do you always lose your clothes when this happens? I see you haven’t brought a spare pair of boots.”

Now that Gavril had recovered a little, he realized Pavel must have gone back to fetch his horse.

“I’ll ride on to Anisieli. Someone will sell me a pair of boots there.” Bare feet were the least of his worries.

“What you did back there was pretty impressive.” Pavel grinned at him. “Those Tielens were obviously under orders to blast us off the road. They must have had quite a surprise when you came swooping down from the hillside!”

“And our side? Casualties?” Gavril forced himself to ask the question he had been dreading.

“More than a few.” Pavel’s pleasant expression grew grave.

“RaÏsa?”

“A nasty gash on the head. It’ll leave a scar. But she’s alive—and swearing at her brother. I take that as a good sign.”

RaÏsa was alive. Gavril felt the pain troubling his heart slowly melt away. He had saved her. So it had not been in vain, then, his reckless attack.

And then he remembered Pavel Velemir.

“Please, say nothing. If there are any questions to be answered, I’ll answer them my own way.”

“Don’t worry.” Pavel offered him his hand, pulling him to his feet and steadying him. “I value my life too much. I wouldn’t do anything to offend such a powerful dragon-lord.”

Dragon-lord. In spite of his weariness, Gavril found himself grinning back at Pavel. It had such an absurdly chivalrous ring to it.

 

The ragged rebel column limped into Anisieli as the sun was setting. Dusklight, violet-hued, seeped down through the steep rocks of the gorge behind. The people of Anisieli cheered and waved the Smarnan flag from upstairs windows as they entered the town, but, as Pavel said to Gavril, there wasn’t much to cheer about.

They had left behind a scene of carnage. Predatory mountain crows were already circling above the broken bodies, even as they piled their own dead onto the one remaining cart.

Iovan, left arm tied up in a blood-soaked scarf, was still directing operations. By now his voice was hoarse and cracked as he gave his orders. He said nothing to Gavril, but he cast him a suspicious, sidelong glance.

They met up with RaÏsa at the gates into Anisieli. Her forehead was bound in a makeshift, bloodstained bandage, but she still managed to smile as she came toward them, flinging an arm around each of their shoulders.

“My brave boys,” she said, hugging them. She was crying, but she didn’t seem to care. Pavel kissed her on each cheek, then full on the mouth.

Gavril breathed in the delicious scent emanating from her body.

Blood. Fresh, warm, innocent blood.

Dizzy with hunger, he pulled away.

The river ran through the center of Anisieli, cold and fresh from the gorge. The tavern owner had set tables out on the cobbled riverside and lit lanterns to welcome them. The mayor of Anisieli appeared and made a long-winded but heartfelt speech, thanking them for defeating the Tielen invaders and offering free food and lodgings for the night.

A doctor was found to attend to the wounded. Tavern girls came out with bottles of the rich, red local wine and baskets of fresh-baked cornbread. There would be lamb stewed with green plums and tarragon, to follow, they promised.

Gavril was not hungry. The smell of the lamb stew wafting from the tavern kitchen only made his stomach gripe. He sat at the mayor’s table opposite Pavel and RaÏsa, wondering how long he could stay in their company before the inevitable aftereffects of using his powers set in.

The rich wine soon loosened the tongues of the rebels and the noisy recounting of the afternoon’s ambush made Gavril’s head ache.

“One moment the Tielens had us surrounded—mortar fire everywhere, and clouds of that evil smoke they use to confuse the enemy.” RaÏsa was describing the battle, with wild and vivid hand gestures. The wine had brought color back to her pale cheeks. “And then the sky went dark—and their mortar battery exploded. Boom! My ears are still ringing. When we went to check—and God, that was a gruesome sight—there was little left. They’d blown themselves up.”

“Not quite accurate,” Pavel said. “It was Gavril’s work.”

Gavril set down his wine and stared hard at Pavel.

Don’t betray my secret if you value your life, Velemir.

“Your work, Gavril? But how?” RaÏsa asked.

“It’s not the first time I’ve done this,” he said as obscurely as he could. “It was just a case of igniting their explosives.”

“Rusta says he saw something in the sky. Dark, winged, flying down from the mountains.”

“Rusta must have suffered a bad blow to the head,” Gavril said with a dry smile.

“He’s not been so well since he was caught in the blast. Says he breathed in some of the smoke after the explosion. But then, we all did.”

They had all breathed in the smoke from his virulent burst of Drakhaon’s Fire, and none of them were protected. If they were not to fall sick and die, he must act to save them.

He stared down at the crimson wine in his mug. Stallion’s Blood, they called it in these parts, fermented from a robust dark grape grown on the southern slopes beyond the gorge. The taste was strong enough to mask what he was about to add to it.

He left the table and went around the side of the tavern, carrying his mug with him. There, beside a stinking privy, he gritted his teeth and made a quick slash in his wrist, letting the daemon-purple blood sizzle, drop by drop, into his wine.

“What are you doing?” the Drakhaoul hissed. “You have barely enough blood to sustain you. You can’t afford to lose anymore.”

“This,” Gavril said, wincing as he pressed his sleeve cuff to the raw edges of the cut, “is necessary.”

It was dark now, and from somewhere high in the wooded slopes of the gorge beyond, he heard the distant call of an owl floating down on the warm night air. As he had hoped, the tavern girls were refilling the wine jugs from a big oak barrel near the kitchen. It was just a matter of slipping some of the wine from his blood-tainted mug into each jug.

He stood, leaning against the tavern doorframe, watching the girls take the healing wine to the rebels, watching until all had refilled their glasses and drunk.

Suddenly it seemed as if the air around him was sucked dry. A wave of intolerable heat rippled through his whole body. Gasping, he buckled, grasping at the wall for support. Glitters of light flashed before his eyes, tiny darts of amethyst and sapphire that pierced his aching head like needles.

“Drakhaoul,” he whispered. “What’s . . . happening to me?”

“Our . . . synthesis . . . is failing. . . .”

“Failing?” Another wave of heat surged through his body, leaving his head pounding, his stomach seized with burning cramps.

One of the tavern girls came out, carrying a big pot of lamb stew. The greasy smell of the meat made him feel even more ill.

“Are you all right, sir?”

He heard her set down the pot and come closer, one tentative step at a time. And through the surging nausea, he caught a new, enticing scent—fresh and sweet—that, as she knelt beside him, he knew issued from her.

“You look really poorly.” He felt cool fingers brush his cheek. “You’re burning hot! Shall I send for a doctor?”

“Water . . .” Though even as he said the word, he knew it was not water that he needed.

“I’ll go get some.”

“No. Wait.” He reached out and caught hold of her hand. “Stay with me.”

“B-but—”

He raised his head to look at her. Through the swirls of smoke that hazed his vision, he saw a black-haired young girl with skin the ripe brown sheen of hazelnuts. “You’re very pretty. What’s your name?”

“My name’s Gulvardi.” A blush darkened her cheeks. “I’m new here at the tavern.” Even her warm breath smelled deliciously sweet.

A sudden flurry of lascivious images whirled through his mind. Desire burned through his whole body, enflamed his brain. He wanted her.

“Then take her.”

“No,” Gavril whispered.

“You fought the Tielens today, didn’t you? That was so brave.” Her eyes, dark as sloes, gazed at him, brimming with admiration.

Gavril doubled up again, clutching his arms about himself, trying to hold the pain in. And then the pain and the desire merged. He would lure her away from watching eyes, to some dark and lonely place where no one would hear her cries for help.

“Maybe—a breath of fresh air—will restore me.” He tried to straighten up. Who was speaking now, Gavril or the Drakhaoul? He no longer knew. He had lost control. “Help me, Gulvardi.”

“Here. Take my arm.”

He leaned against her as she guided him down the steps toward the sound of the rushing river. Every hesitant step they took away from the tavern led him closer to the achievement of his desire.

Ahead loomed the dark trunks of pines on the gorge edge. There would be hollows between the gnarled roots, soft with dry pine needles.

“Do you feel better out here?” Gulvardi said.

“A little.”

The desire was almost unbearable, the cramping hunger a torment—the last desperate need of a man dying of famine. But he must not make his move. Not yet, not until he was sure they were well out of sight of the tavern.

The rising moon, a slender paring, touched the rushing river water far below with flickers of silver.

“Look,” she said. “The moonlight’s so beautiful.”

“But not as beautiful as you.” Gavril heard the trite words issue from his mouth as he reached for her, crushing her to him. “Kiss me, Gulvardi.”

His lips touched hers.

“No.” She resisted a little, twisting away. “Someone will see—”

He could feel the softness of her nut-brown breasts beneath the blouse—poor-quality linen that ripped open so easily beneath his questing fingers.

He pulled her closer, forcing his mouth against hers. He heard her give a little cry—and tasted blood on her lips.

The taste—warm, salt-sweet—sent him into a frenzy. He nuzzled his face against her throat, her breasts, licking, biting, sucking . . .

“No!” Gulvardi fought him, squirming and kicking, all sharp knees and elbows. She was screaming at him now, but all he could hear was the pulsing of the warm blood in her veins. All he knew was his own need to take in as much of that red, salty sweetness as he could to soothe the burning agony inside.

“Gulvardi?” Someone was calling her name.

The dark smoke-haze melted away and his sight cleared. A thin taper of moonlight illumined the scene.

He was kneeling in the soft carpet of pine needles and sandy soil. In front of him crouched a bloodstained girl, half-naked, her clothes torn, her moonlit eyes wide and terrified.

“Are you—are you all right?” he asked dazedly.

She began to edge away, shuffling backward, one arm outstretched to keep him from her. “M-monster!” she whispered. “Keep away!”

She turned and began to run, stumbling through the trees.

“Wait!”

The river shimmered far below.

“Keep away from me, monster!”

“The river—be careful—”

His warning cry came too late. In her headlong dash to escape him, she tripped—and fell from sight over the edge onto the jagged rocks far below.

“Oh no. No.” He leaned out over the rushing river, trying in vain to see where she had fallen, but seeing only the silvered water, fast-flowing over its stony bed.

“Let her go. She’s served her purpose.”

“Gulvardi!” he shouted, his voice echoing around the rocky walls of the gorge.

There was no reply. How could she have survived a fall from such a height?

And then he began to cry, tears of grief and shame for the girl he had just destroyed; useless tears for himself, damned as he was now to perdition. She had called him a monster. And she was right. From the darkest shadows of his mind, a creature had been loosed: a ravening beast whose obscene hunger would not be denied.