CHAPTER 23
Kiukiu rubbed her eyes. She was standing beside the Magus, high up on the windswept top of a steep, rocky hill. Far below, a broad green river wound through the center of a great city: a city full of spires and towers and the rising smoke from innumerable chimneys. She had never seen so many houses crammed together before—or so many ships crowding the river.
“Where are we?” she asked in amazement.
“That is Tielborg, capital city of Tielen,” said Linnaius.
“But why have you brought me here?” She was still sleepy, her mind not yet fully awake.
“Look behind you.”
She turned and saw a ruin dominating the crown of the hill. A great hall of ancient stone, its broken walls towered above them, guarded by weatherworn statues of tall warriors, helmed for battle. The Magus beckoned her toward it. The sun was sinking westward, gilding the ancient stones with a rich, warm light. But as she came closer, she saw only the lengthening shadows cast by the giant warriors.
Gazing up as they passed underneath the arched gateway, she noticed that the worn stone had once been painted, and that little traces of blue and ochre still remained. Now she saw the stern-faced warriors were winged, each wing-feather carved with exquisite artistry.
“Heavenly Guardians?” she murmured. And then she found herself in a courtyard, where another unexpected sight awaited. Tielen soldiers lounged around, their horses cropping the grass growing up between the cracked flagstones. On seeing the Magus, the soldiers straightened up and a young officer came to meet them, saluting with alacrity.
“Lieutenant Vassian at your service, Magus. His imperial highness awaits you in the inner court. I am under orders to conduct you to him straightaway.”
“Where are we?” whispered Kiukiu as the lieutenant led them farther into the ruin. The daylight was dimming and she felt a sudden chill envelop her. “It feels like a tomb.” She hugged her gusly tightly to her, as if it could ward off evil spirits.
Lieutenant Vassian brought them into a vaulted inner chamber as high as the nave of the monastery church in Kerjhenezh. Their footsteps echoed hollowly in the gloom. Torches had been lit and placed in links around the walls, and by their flickering light she caught glimpses of worn carvings and warlike friezes that depicted battles from long ago. Armed horsemen trampled the broken bodies of their enemies underfoot, hacking and stabbing in a frenzy of slaughter. Kiukiu averted her eyes. The place reeked of spilled blood and carnage.
“Magus Linnaius is here,” announced the lieutenant, standing to attention so stiffly Kiukiu feared the shining buttons on his uniform would pop off.
A tall, broad-shouldered man walked toward them out of the shadows. The instant she glimpsed his burned face, she knew him.
“P-Prince Eugene?” she stammered.
“Emperor Eugene,” prompted Linnaius, “and you must not speak unless spoken to. When you reply, you must call the Emperor ‘your imperial highness.’ ”
So you’re the one who’s caused us so much heartache. She fumbled a curtsy. You’re the one who took Lord Gavril from us and made the druzhina your slaves. Yet when she looked into his eyes, she could not help but feel sorry for him. His features, once handsome, had been ruined by the extensive scarring where he had been seared by Drakhaon’s Fire. And she glimpsed what he strove to hide from others, the shadow of the constant pain, darkening his clear, incisive gaze.
“So you’re Kiukirilya, the Spirit Singer,” the Emperor said.
Suddenly she realized she was standing before the Emperor of all New Rossiya with her hair mussed, wearing her old, creased washday dress. Embarrassment overwhelmed her. What must he think?
“I’d like you to help me find the answer to a question.” He was still speaking to her and she was now in such a muddle she could hardly hear the words. Should she reply? What was it she was supposed to call him, ‘your high imperialness?’ No, no, that couldn’t be right. . . .
“Well, Kiukirilya?” The Magus was prompting her again. “Can you do it?”
“Do what?” she said helplessly. She had spent her life in service, always doing as she was bidden and being beaten if she made a mistake. She was not yet used to being asked.
“Summon the spirit of the Emperor Artamon, to answer his highness’s question.”
She stared at the Magus, dumbstruck.
“We are standing in his mausoleum now. His sarcophagus lies in the chamber below.”
Kiukiu felt her skin crawl. Had they any idea of the risks of such a venture? This was not just any spirit; it was powerful and ancient.
“Remember our arrangement,” Linnaius said quietly. She hated him in that moment for reminding her. They held Gavril, and they knew she would do anything to see him again.
“Don’t keep his imperial highness waiting,” Linnaius whispered.
Had they no idea of the careful preparation required for such a summoning? Did they expect her just to wave her hands and conjure a spirit out of the air?
“I’ll need something that belonged to the Emperor. A lock of hair, or nail parings would work even better.”
Eugene glanced at the Magus. “What do we have, Linnaius?”
“Let’s go down into the burial chamber.”
Lieutenant Vassian clicked his fingers and two of the guardsmen took the torches from the wall to light their way.
The Emperor set off at a brisk pace, but Kiukiu hung back, reluctant to descend into the subterranean darkness of the burial chamber. Back home with Malusha, her spirit-summonings had been simple affairs: Piotr from the village inn wanting to ask his grandmother her secret ingredient when brewing kvass, or poor Yelena needing to say a second farewell to her littlest daughter, dead at only five years from the winter sickness. They had been affecting ceremonies, with many tears shed, but they were healing tears, and the relatives had gone away at peace with themselves afterward. And the spirits were gentle and benevolent, though more than a little confused at finding themselves in a cottage filled with roosting snow owls.
As she crept down the dusty stone stairs, she felt the air get colder and mustier. It smelled old, stale, and unwholesome.
In the center of the chamber stood a stone plinth; on the plinth was a massive stone sarcophagus, sculpted to represent the Emperor’s body lying in state. At his feet lay curled a hound. Once, like the warrior guardians outside, the likeness had been covered in bright paint and gold leaf. Now only the faintest traces remained, outlining a stern carved face with long, curling stone locks and beard.
Kiukiu looked on the rigid face and shivered, feeling again that dark dread.
“Open the tomb,” said Emperor Eugene.
The guardsmen took a crowbar and began to lever the heavy stone lid off the base. The yellow torchflames flickered in a sudden draft. One guardsman paused, glancing around uneasily.
Is there something else in here? A sentinel, set here by Artamon’s magi to guard his body?
Kiukiu took out her gusly and began to tune it. The flames flickered again and almost went out. One of the guardsmen swore under his breath.
“Linnaius, we haven’t come here to listen to a recital of folk music,” she heard the Emperor say impatiently. “Are you sure this is the right girl?”
The guardsmen were grunting and sweating with their efforts. Then suddenly the sarcophagus lid slid open.
The torches went out as if someone had doused them with water. Kiukiu heard the guardsmen fumbling with tinders and cursing in the dark. She struck a first flurry of notes and the echoing sound of the gusly strings filled the burial chamber.
She could sense the sentinel now, close at hand. She struck another flurry of notes to force it to reveal itself.
She finally saw it, limned in pale ghoulfire, crouched at the foot of the sarcophagus like the faithful hound ready to spring. Malusha had told her of tomb sentinels, but this was the first she had ever seen. And now it knew she could see it, for it turned its face toward her, snarling.
“There you are!” she breathed. She had trapped it just in time. And she knew now exactly what it was. A bodyguard, slain in the Emperor’s tomb to guard his master’s body. His bones must lie somewhere in this vault: unburied, unmourned. The trapped spirit had forgotten all but its eternal mission: to protect the tomb. But the snarling skull of a face, the clutching, clawing fingers, still held the power to instill paralyzing fear—and maybe much worse.
Her fingers were shaking as she began to play the Sending Song, so much so that she missed a note, marring the perfection of the ancient ritual.
The sentinel snatched its chance. Freed from the gusly’s hold, it let out a shriek and sprang straight toward the Emperor, hooked nails clawing, jaws opened wide to breathe a pestilential miasma in his face.
“Stop!” Kiukiu struck the holding chord again, with as much force as she could muster.
The sentinel froze in midleap.
This time she knew the others could see it. The Emperor stood his ground, staring with extraordinary sangfroid at the decayed ghoul-face so close to his own.
Her fingers found the deep, slow notes of the Sending Song and the taut form slowly relaxed.
“Go,” she whispered. “Your task is done. You are free.”
The sentinel’s pale form shimmered, then swiftly began to fade until, like wisping candlesmoke, it drifted away.
Linnaius clicked his fingers and a little flame blossomed like a golden rose in the darkness. By its light, Kiukiu saw the guardsmen—white-faced and evidently shaken by what they had glimpsed.
“Man the entrance to the chamber,” the Emperor ordered. “No one is to disturb us. Understood?”
They seemed only too glad to be given the excuse to leave, almost tripping over each other in their haste to reach the stairway.
“Now, Kiukirilya,” the Emperor said, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. “Let’s get this over with.” He behaved so calmly, but now she could see he was as rattled as his men. And, in truth, if she dared to admit it to herself, she was too. But this had to be done.
She forced herself to approach the dais and climbed up beside the gaping stone tomb. She peered inside, half-fearing that a second sentinel-ghoul would come shrieking out and breathe its mephitic grave-stench in her face.
In the uncertain mage-light, she saw a mummified corpse, partially fallen to dust, the withered skin like parchment, with the bones protruding through. The grave clothes, once fine linens embroidered with purple and gold thread, had all but rotted away. She could smell a faint odor of old tomb-spices, bitter salts, and resins. And—oh horror—there was what she had foolishly asked for, the last long grey strands of dry hair clinging to the skull.
Closing her eyes and wincing with revulsion, she reached in and with shaking fingers pulled out a lock of the dead Emperor’s hair.
“Forgive me,” she said. Grave robbery was not her usual practice. Already she could hear Malusha scolding her for breaking the ages-old code of the Guslyars. She sat down at the foot of the sarcophagus, her gusly across her knees. She was trembling. She prayed the fragile strands of hair would not crumble to dust before she could call their owner back to the vault.
Just this one summoning, she told herself, and then they will be satisfied.
“You must not look into the spirit’s eyes,” she said, staring directly at the Emperor. “Whatever the spirit may say, no matter how persuasive it may be, never look into its eyes.”
“Why?” asked the Emperor bluntly.
Kiukiu answered, equally bluntly, “Spirits cannot resist the desire to become flesh again. It will try to possess you.”
“How could we prevent such a thing, were it to try?” asked the Magus.
“You must burn the hair. The spirit will be forced to return to the Ways Beyond.”
“I doubt such a precaution will be necessary,” said Eugene. He sounded so confident. Had he no idea of the seductive power of summoned spirits? Or the weakness of mere mortals in the face of such persuasions?
She placed the lock of hair before her on the dusty flagstones and sat back to begin the Summoning Song.
Kiukiu closed her eyes as she played the long, slow notes, sending her consciousness far out from the burial vault into the burnished gold of the sunset. As she played, she made herself repeat aloud the names of the note patterns, a repetitive litany:
“Twilight. Starlight. Midnight. Memory.”
Each resonant pitch carried her farther onward, drifting from the pale light of dusk toward the starless darkness . . . and beyond.
And then she saw him. Tall, broad-shouldered as Eugene himself, he was gliding toward her through the eternal dusk as though pulled by an irresistible force. It had to be Artamon.
“Come with me, Lord Artamon,” she said.
“Memory. Midnight. Starlight . . .” She must keep playing, each note in its right place or the pattern binding the spirit would fail and it would break free.
She opened her eyes. Mist was rising from the ground of the vault.
A man appeared, half-hidden in the fog—a tall, hawk-nosed man with a thick mane of oak-brown hair. She caught a glimpse of dark, troubled eyes staring at her, but hastily averted her gaze.
“Necromancy,” muttered Emperor Eugene. “Or some outrageous piece of fairground trickery. Whichever, it’s damnably convincing.”
“Why have you summoned me? You cannot hold me long against my will, Guslyar.”
“Forgive me,” Kiukiu whispered again. She could feel the strength of the spirit struggling to be free. She must hold it bound in the chains of her Summoning Song and not let it loose. But it would take all her strength and skill to do it.
“Speak to it, highness,” urged Linnaius.
Eugene squared his shoulders. He addressed the apparition.
“Are you Artamon the Great?”
“That was my name when I was alive.”
“You had a son, Prince Volkhar. He gave you a ruby.”
“That ruby was cursed.” Artamon’s deep voice reverberated through the vault, heavy with grief and sorrow. “It was a daemon-stone. It brought strife and ruin to my empire. It was used to unleash terrible daemons into the world, daemon-warriors that possessed my beloved sons and turned them against one another.”
“A daemon-stone?” repeated Eugene.
“It contained powers, powers strong enough to open a gate between the worlds. When I held the gem in my hands, I could feel the power burning in its bloodred heart. It was the most beautiful jewel I had ever possessed.” Artamon’s strong voice began to falter. “But I vowed that it should never be used to cause such devastation again. And so I had my jewelers divide it. Three craftsmen died, burned by its fire, until my mages laid such strong wards upon it that the division was achieved.”
“So you—not your sons—ordered the stone to be divided?”
“My sons?” Artamon’s voice echoed. “They were no longer my sons. They looked like daemon-lords; they fought like daemon-lords. In their madness, they were too powerful for me to control. Only Serzhei of Azhkendir had the courage to confront them. And he died, battling my youngest boy. So Volkhar was lost to me forever.”
Kiukiu was concentrating hard on keeping Artamon bound by the droning notes of the Summoning Song, within the drifting mists where the world and that of the Ways Beyond mingled. She glanced up and saw Eugene move closer to the tomb and the tall spirit. Had he forgotten her warning?
“But how did it happen? How were your sons—all your sons—possessed by daemons?”
She could tell from the urgency of Eugene’s voice that he burned to know the answer.
“And who are you that you dare ask me, Emperor of all Rossiya, such a question?”
Eugene smiled. “I am Eugene, Emperor of New Rossiya.”
Artamon fell silent. His spirit-form wavered. The temperature was dropping fast and Kiukiu’s fingertips ached with cold.
“We’re losing him, Kiukirilya.” Linnaius’s voice muttered warningly.
“They took the ruby from me. Their intent was to unlock the ancient gateway to the realm of daemons and send the spirit that possessed Volkhar back. But the temptation to seek power of their own was too strong, and when the gate was opened, they too were possessed.”
“And where is this gateway?” Eugene’s voice trembled now with excitement.
“Far from here, on an island sacred to the Serpent God, Nagar. My boy, my Volkhar, forswore his faith in the One God and became one of the priests of Nagar. Such was the strength of his new faith that he even took the Serpent God’s name, calling himself Nagarian.”
Nagarian? Kiukiu forced herself to keep playing, though her arms and back were stiff from holding the heavy gusly. Did that mean Lord Gavril was descended from the Great Artamon?
“Come closer, Eugene. There are other secrets still I could impart. But they are not for the ears of common servants. Let me whisper them to you, alone.”
The chill in the tomb had begun to numb Kiukiu’s mind as well as her fingers. She heard the spirit’s seductive offer but did not at once realize what it intended. She looked up and saw Eugene walking into the swirling mists, directly toward Artamon. She saw the spirit lean forward, arms opening as though to embrace him.
And she had warned him!
“No!” she cried, breaking off in midpattern. The broken notes hung as if frozen on the cold air, jagged as icicles.
The spirit froze too, arms raised to draw Eugene close.
“Don’t look into his eyes!”
Artamon turned toward her. Cold fire blazed from his eyes, a fury of rage and blatant desire. She dug her heels into the floor, determined not to give way.
“He is mine. I shall be Emperor again. I shall take back my empire.”
She faced the spirit, eyes still downcast, avoiding the silver fire of his gaze.
“Your time in this world is past, Lord Artamon. Let him go. I command you—let him go!”
“You dare to cross me, Guslyar? Look in my eyes, if you dare. You are not strong enough to withstand my will.”
“Magus!” Kiukiu cried out, forcing all her strength into her voice. “Burn the hair!”
Linnaius snatched up the ancient lock of hair. The spirit turned toward him, its face twisted with hatred. The Magus’s little golden flame bloomed in the darkness, flaring blue as the hair sizzled to ashes and a foul smell of burning tainted the vault.
The spirit let out a rasping shriek that seared Kiukiu’s ears. It wavered to and fro, as though the Magus’s flame was fast consuming its energy. It dwindled, shrinking until—with one last gasping shudder—it faded into the tomb. The golden mage-light went out and there was only darkness.
The Magus relit the torches.
Eugene still stood as though rooted to the ground. Kiukiu’s heart was pounding as she set down the gusly.
“Is—is he—”
And then the Emperor let out a shout of triumph.
“Extraordinary!” He punched the air with his fist. “Quite extraordinary.”
So he was unharmed. Kiukiu slithered slowly down the side of the tomb, huddling at the foot of the sarcophagus. She was shivering with relief, her strength utterly spent.
“Lieutenant Vassian. In here,” called the Emperor.
Guardsmen came down the stairs into the vault. She heard the Emperor instructing them to replace the stone lid on the sarcophagus. She was so weary she could not move.
“Thank you, Kiukirilya.”
She looked up dazedly and saw the Emperor standing over her, his eyes bright with exhilaration.
“Lieutenant Vassian, have you a flask of aquavit?”
“Here.”
The lieutenant knelt beside her and put a small silver flask into her hands. Slowly she raised it to her lips and took a mouthful, coughing as the strong spirits stung the back of her throat.
“Let the vault be sealed. I shall send antiquaries from the university to restore the tomb.” Eugene’s voice seemed to be coming from farther and farther off. “Until then, let no one else disturb the first Emperor’s rest.”
Had they forgotten her? Did they mean to seal her in the vault as well? She tried to get to her feet to follow, but sank back, exhausted.
Don’t leave me here in the dark with the dead.
“Come, miss. It’s time to go.”
Kiukiu felt a strong arm around her shoulders, raising her to her feet. She looked up into the face of Lieutenant Vassian. It was a good-hearted face, she thought, an honest face.
“My gusly,” she said. She bent to pick it up. It seemed to weigh as much as an anvil.
“Let me carry that for you,” he said.
She placed it in his arms and followed him, one dragging step after another, out of the unwholesome air of the burial vault, up toward the fresh night air and the light of the spring stars.
“You will awake now.”
Kiukiu opened her eyes. She had been so deeply asleep that she did not know where she was for a moment. But when she saw Kaspar Linnaius, when she felt the swift onrushing throb of the sky craft, she remembered.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep—”
“We are approaching Arnskammar.”
So they were close. She was choked with excitement. She would see Lord Gavril at last, after all these long months apart. Only now did she begin to feel apprehensive. He would be changed; that was for certain. No one could live a prisoner’s life and not be. But she was strong; she was prepared. She loved him. Surely love would be enough to see them through the difficulties that lay ahead?
On the distant horizon she saw high cliffs, craggy and sharp. Rocks protruded out of the heaving sea. The waters had turned a dark, metallic color except where they foamed white as they smashed against the iron-brown stone of the cliffs.
“The prison? Where is the prison?” She gazed out, shading her eyes.
They were scudding faster now, rainclouds close behind them.
“There.” Linnaius pointed toward the farthest cliff. He brought them low over the water so that the prison’s looming towers, rising up out of the cliff itself, were silhouetted against the pale, rain-filled sky.
She let out a little cry. The tower on the farthest, most precipitate edge of the cliffs was half-blown away, a jagged shell surrounded by shattered debris.
“What is it?”
“Look!” She stabbed her finger at the prison. “What’s happened here? That tower is in ruins!”
“Let’s take a closer look.” Linnaius guided the craft closer, speeding past the formidable walls of the prison.
She was kneeling up now, frowning intently at the brown, sea-stained walls towering above them. Spray fountained into the air from the wild waves below. Cormorants, black-winged and predatory, hunched on the lower rocks, oblivious of the sea’s assault on their perch.
“Has the prison been attacked?” Her voice was hardly audible above the roar of the waves. “Has there been a battle?”
Linnaius brought the craft about, scanning the ground below for a suitable landing place. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“What do you mean?”
But the Magus did not answer. All his attention was focused on landing the sky craft.
“This is most—ahem—awkward.” The director of the prison seemed embarrassed by their arrival. “I sent a full report to the Emperor about the unfortunate affair involving Twenty-One.”
“Twenty-One?” Kiukiu echoed angrily. “Do you mean Lord Gavril? Doesn’t he have a name anymore?”
“I’ve been abroad, Director Baltzar,” Linnaius said. “It may be that your communication has not been forwarded to me.”
“Then”—the director kept rubbing his palms together nervously—”I’m afraid your journey has been a wasted one. There was a storm, you see, and the tower in which Twenty-One was confined was struck by lightning. We searched the rubble—but—”
“Oh no,” Kiukiu said softly. “It can’t be.”
“The top of the tower disintegrated. Part fell into the sea below, the rest landed in the courtyard. It was completely destroyed.”
Kiukiu stared at him. She had heard the words but was not sure she understood them. “Completely destroyed?”
“No trace has been found of a body.”
Struck by lightning? Kiukiu could not even bear to think of it. And yet her mind began to produce images, horrible images of raging fire and crumbling stone.
“You’re saying the prisoner is dead?” Linnaius persisted.
Director Baltzar gave a little, helpless shrug of the shoulders. “No one could have survived a fall from such a height into the sea. The rocks . . .”
Linnaius turned to Kiukiu. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had not anticipated such an outcome to our journey. Shall we go?”
All she could see was the Magus’s pale eyes; everything else around her had dwindled to shadows. She felt cold now, and numb.
“Wait.” She could hardly speak. “Let me at least see the place where he—where—”
“Family?” Director Baltzar mouthed the word and Linnaius nodded. At once the director’s manner altered; his tone of voice became unctuous in its solicitude. “But of course. And I would have handed over the deceased’s personal effects to you, only everything was destroyed in the storm.”
What did she care about personal effects? She could only think of Lord Gavril.
“Just take me there.”
Director Baltzar led them out into the inner courtyard. A dank passageway led to a locked grille and then another gloomy courtyard hemmed in by grim, water-stained walls. Warders with clanking keys unlocked gate after gate to let them pass along a dark tunnel into the heart of the asylum.
And then they came out on the edge of the cliff, wind-buffeted, with the broken walls the only barrier between them and the raging sea beneath.
Kiukiu gazed at the piles of rubble lying at the base of the ruined tower.
“How?” she cried over the roar of the wind. “How can you be dead, Gavril, and I not know?”
Linnaius saw Kiukiu suddenly start out toward the rubble, moving with swift determination. For a second he feared she was about to throw herself over the edge of the cliff. But she just stood there, her back to him, gazing down at the pounding sea.
“Well?” he said, trying to sound kindly.
He saw her draw her sleeve over her face, as though dashing away tears. There was something in the way she wept for her dead lord, silently and with her face averted, that touched even his cold heart. Rain began to fall—a light patter at first, and then, as darker clouds swept in swiftly over the headland, the drops spattered down in earnest.
“Kiukirilya,” he said. “You’ll catch cold out here. Let’s take shelter.”
“Very well.” Her voice was devoid of emotion.
Director Baltzar took them back to his office. Linnaius watched Kiukiu all the way. At one time, hearing a distant voice crying out from one of the high tower cells, she stopped in the rain-swept courtyard, raising her head to listen. “Poor wretches,” she said in the same emotionless tone. “Better to be dead than imprisoned here for life.”
The sky above Arnskammar had darkened to the color of lead. Kiukiu trailed slowly after the Magus through the falling rain, one dragging step after another. She was soaked to the skin and she didn’t care.
Gavril was dead.
She had touched the lightning-blasted stones. She had stood on the edge of the cliff where the tower had crumbled into the sea. So why didn’t she believe what they told her? Why, in her heart, did she feel he was still alive?
Stupid girl! Raindrops mingled with the tears running unchecked down her cheeks. No mortal man could have survived such a blast. And even if Gavril had somehow been thrown free, he would have been dashed to pieces on the rocks far below, his bloodied and broken body washed away by the tide.
“Back to Azhkendir?” Linnaius said. Rain ran down his thin nose; a drop was hanging on the tip.
“It can’t be true,” she said, as obstinate as a child. “It just can’t be.”
“How can you be sure?” he asked.
Suddenly she understood what he meant. “Oh no,” she whispered. “I can’t do it. Don’t make me. Don’t . . .”
He shrugged. “Who else is there who can confirm—once and for all—that Gavril Nagarian is dead?”
She said nothing, remembering her grandmother’s teaching: “The newly dead are very difficult to trace. There is always chaos and confusion. Many refuse to accept that they have passed beyond the bournes of this world. Others, with unfinished business here, strive to return by any means possible.”
This would be the hardest task she had ever undertaken, searching for her lover’s spirit.
Tears choked her; tears of bitter anger.
I’ll sing him back, she vowed fiercely. I’ll sing his spirit back into another body.
But whose body would she choose? Semyon? The young lieutenant who had treated her so chivalrously at the mausoleum? The Emperor Eugene? And where would their spirits go? Wouldn’t it be a kind of murder, to force an alien spirit into their unwilling bodies? Wouldn’t it send them mad?
Now she remembered Lord Jaromir lurching toward her, possessed by his father’s spirit-wraith. She saw again the incipient madness in his golden eyes.
“No!” she sobbed aloud. “No, not that.”
Besides, she could still feel Gavril’s arms around her. She could still see the warmth in his blue eyes when he smiled at her, still hear his voice saying her name. How could she dare to think she could recreate that intimacy using a stranger’s body?
“We must go.” The Magus touched her arm.
“No. Not yet.” She shook his hand away.
“Surely you can perform your ritual anywhere? Does it have to be here, where Lord Gavril died?” There was a slight hint of tetchiness in his voice.
“I have nothing of his to perform a summoning, so it must be here,” she cried, her voice raw. It was true. She had not one single token of love, no lock of hair or ring to remember him by. Just his last promise, when they had parted on the snowy moorlands. “I will come for you.”
Now it was never to be. Instead she was going to have to wander the eternal vasts of the Ways Beyond, searching for her dead lover.
“If it must be here, then here it must be,” said the Magus. “But come sit in the sky craft; at least it’s dry.”
“The sky craft?” Kiukiu gazed around, seeing only boulders and scrubby bushes, bowed over by the sea wind.
The Magus moved his bony hands with extraordinary rapidity, like Sosia whisking a linen cloth from a dining table. There lay the craft, no longer concealed by his clever artifice, and inside it her gusly. As she lifted the instrument onto her lap, it felt as heavy as if it were made of lead. The strings would not stay in tune. She moved slowly as though in a dream. Everything took too much effort.
This was the hardest task she had ever attempted. Her fingers began to pluck the strings; the slow, sad notes began to issue from her throat as though someone else were singing them.
Where shall I look?
She was singing herself into the trance, letting each pitch resonate through her whole body until her spirit broke free and began to drift away. . . .
And if I find him, will he even know me? Kiukiu passed through ragged festoons and swags of dark mist. She had set all her thoughts on Gavril, not knowing where this would take her in the Ways Beyond. And now she found herself in a vast hall, filled with a crowd of milling, aimless souls, all wandering about, lost and confused.
A distraught woman rushed up to her, crying out, “There you are at last, Linna, I’ve been searching for you for so long—”
Kiukiu saw the look of bitter disappointment as the woman realized she was not the one she was searching for.
Almost instantly a little boy stretched out his arms to her imploringly. “Where’s my mother? I can’t find her. Help me.”
Kiukiu steeled herself to ignore the harrowing pleas and walked on, scanning the hall in vain. How could she ever track Gavril down in this chaos? She halted, closing her eyes, willing his image into her mind, keeping all her thoughts fixed on him and him alone. When she opened her eyes again, the others had faded and were nothing now but whispering shadows. She passed on through the echoing vaults of the hall, trying to block out the whisper-voices of the newly dead. And all the time, the pain in her heart burned like a brand. Her feet dragged. For when she found him here, as find him she must, she would know for sure that her life had lost all meaning.
She had no idea how long she had been wandering onward through the gloomy vastness of the hall when she found herself facing a tall portico. Shreds of mist fluttered and flapped like gauze curtains across the opening.
“Where are you, Gavril?” she cried. “Why can’t I find you?”
“Well?” asked a soft voice. Rain glistened on the rocks and slowly dripped from the stunted branches of a sea pine overhead.
Kaspar Linnaius was regarding her inquiringly with his cloud-pale eyes.
She shivered. “No,” she said. Her mind was still filled with the pleading voices of the newly dead. “There were so many, so very many . . .”
He nodded. “Perhaps your trance was not deep enough to take you where he has gone.”
She glared at him. “Are you suggesting I’m not skilled enough to find him?” But he had spoken the truth and she resented it; she had never undertaken such a search before. “What do you know of such things?”
“You must not abandon your search so easily. You must go further in.”
She opened her mouth to make another retort but realized that he was right. She must try again. If only to say one last farewell. . . .
Kaspar Linnaius stood looking down at Kiukiu. Her voice, so strong at first, was fading slowly to a whisper as her fingers ceased to pluck the strings of the gusly. Such potent music. Even he, who understood little of the crude and dangerous magic of the Azhkendi shamans, sensed its energy and power.
Her voice died, her head drooped forward, and her fingers rested loosely on the metal strings. She was out of her body now, lost in the singing-trance. He must act now and swiftly.
Her grandmother’s influence was far too strong in Azhkendir; here, at least, he could work his glamour on her without fear of interference.
He drew from inside his robe an alchymist’s crystal glass, fashioned like a teardrop. The wavering daylight, penetrating the thin, high clouds, spun a swirl of rainbows in the heart of the glass.
It was this forbidden use of his art—soul-stealing—that had brought about the closure of the Thaumaturgical College in Francia and the inquisition and deaths of his fellow mages. The Guslyars of Azhkendir talked with the spirits of the dead, but the Francian magi had learned how to imprison the souls of the living.
He leaned closer to Kiukiu, listening to the gentle, regular rhythm of her breathing, raising the soul-glass toward her lips.
“Now,” he whispered, “now you are mine, Kiukirilya.”