CHAPTER 24
Pavel Velemir tried to shift into a position that would ease the crippling stiffness in his back and legs. His captors had somehow contrived to chain him so that he could hardly move. Kneeling was difficult and standing impossible, except in a ludicrously stooped position.
He let a slow sigh escape his lips.
He had known it would not be easy to be accepted as one of the Smarnan rebels. But he had not planned on being chained up in the Old Citadel with other Tielen prisoners who, one by one, were being taken out into the courtyard to be shot. Now, of the few who remained, one sat white-faced in a dazed stupor, another mumbled prayers over and over under his breath, and a third was so terrified that fear had loosened his bowels with the inevitable disagreeable results.
Poor devils.
As the day wore on, the heat and the smell grew more and more offensive. Even though the citadel walls were at least a foot thick, the Tielens had blasted so many holes in them that they let in the fierce midday sun. Pavel leaned back against the shrapnel-pitted stone and closed his eyes. He had planned on using the “Disgraced at the Winter Palace” story from the Mirom Journal as his alibi, but now he realized that the rebels had been so caught up with their own troubles, his exploits in Mirom would be of no significance to them whatsoever. He would have to think fast if he was to escape the firing squad.
What would you have done in my place, Uncle Feodor?
And then he heard a girl’s voice, passionate and young, raised in argument with the guards.
“You were wrong about Gavril Andar, Iovan! How many more mistakes are you going to make?”
“My conscience is clear.”
The rebel girl with the short-cropped hair. He had seen her giving a cup of water to a sick prisoner. She, at least, showed some compassion. What was her name . . . RaÏsa? Was she his salvation?
Iovan appeared in the doorway, carbine in hand. He came straight up to Pavel. “Get up.” He prodded Pavel with the end of his carbine barrel.
Pavel tried to stand, but the shackles pulled him back down to his knees.
“This one isn’t in Tielen uniform. Why did you arrest him?” asked a strong, resonant voice.
“Lukan!” cried RaÏsa, hurrying to the newcomer’s side.
Pavel looked up and saw another man looking down at him. He was strong-featured, sunburned, with a wild head of silvered black hair. The others, even Iovan, deferred to him, so he must be one of the leaders.
“What is your name?” Lukan asked him.
“Pavel Velemir.”
“They tell me you come from Muscobar.” Lukan’s face swam in and out of focus. “What are you doing in Smarna?”
“I came to join you.”
“I see.” Lukan glanced at Iovan. “And why should we trust you? You could be a spy.”
“Why?” Pavel said. “Because I am a fugitive from the Emperor’s tyranny.”
“You?” burst out Iovan, his voice sour with scorn.
“Because I was working in the diplomatic service before I was publicly disgraced. Because I know things that you cannot possibly know about the plans of Eugene and his ministers.”
Lukan glanced at Iovan again. Pavel saw uncertainty in the look that passed between them.
“He’s bluffing,” said Iovan.
“But what if he’s telling the truth?” RaÏsa cried. “What if he really has come from Muscobar to help us?”
“And what if he’s a Tielen double agent? Eugene’s spies are everywhere. And—remember, RaÏsa?—we shoot spies.”
“Do something, Lukan!” RaÏsa pleaded, ignoring her brother.
Lukan’s forehead was still furrowed, the expression in his dark eyes wary.
“Bring him to the council chamber. Let him make his case to the other Wardens of the Citadel.”
Iovan put finger and thumb to his lips and let out a piercing whistle. Two of the militia, who had been lounging around smoking tobacco, hastily put down their pipes and came over.
“Prisoner to the council chamber,” Iovan ordered. “Now.”
Three men and a woman sat at a long table in the blast-damaged chamber. A shaft of golden afternoon sun, sparkling with dust motes, shone down from a ragged hole in the roof. It dazzled Pavel so that he could only make out the shadowy outlines of his inquisitors.
Lukan crossed the wide chamber swiftly and leaned down to confer with the wardens.
“Bring the man calling himself Pavel Velemir before us,” said the woman at the table.
Iovan tugged hard on the chain around Pavel’s ankles; Pavel staggered, almost losing his balance, then lurched forward to stand before the wardens.
“We are the elected Wardens of the Citadel.” The woman spoke briskly. “My name is Nina Vashteli, Minister of Justice in Vermeille. You claim to bring us intelligence of the New Rossiyan government—”
“Ready—aim—fire!”
A fusillade of shots rang out from the courtyard below.
Nina Vashteli gave Pavel a sharp, appraising look.
“We show no mercy to our enemies—especially spies.”
Pavel closed his eyes a moment, remembering his fellow prisoners. Those poor wretches. They’ll never get to see Tielen again, now.
“Can you prove your identity?” Minister Vashteli asked.
“No,” he said. “But I spent many childhood summers here with my mother Xenia at the Villa Sapara. Some of the servants there might remember me.”
Lukan whispered in Minister Vashteli’s ear.
“We’ll send to the Villa Sapara for some of the staff, to verify your story,” the minister said. “RaÏsa Korneli, would you go? Take my barouche.”
“Thank you.” RaÏsa shot a triumphant look at her brother as she hurried from the chamber.
“I’ve attended receptions at the Villa Sapara,” the minister went on. “So has Professor Lukan.”
Lukan nodded; he was gazing searchingly at Pavel now, as though trying to identify some familiar feature. “We’ve both met Lady Xenia and her son. You certainly resemble him. But we must be sure you’re not an impostor.”
“Wait a moment, here!” Iovan strode up to the table. “If this is Pavel Velemir, what has become of that uncle of his? Didn’t he go over to Eugene of Tielen’s side? That same Eugene who is enforcing his imperial tyranny on us today?” He turned around to Pavel, eyes narrowed. “Just where do your allegiances lie?”
Another volley of shots cracked out from the courtyard below. More summary executions by firing squad. Pavel clenched his fists. It could soon be his turn—and he could think of no explanation that would satisfy his inquisitors.
“My allegiances,” he said, affecting a careless tone, “such as they were, lay with Muscobar. I worked in the diplomatic service for the Orlovs. But when Eugene deposed Grand Duke Aleksei, I was swiftly removed from my post and it was given to a Tielen civil servant.”
“No great tragedy,” said Iovan under his breath.
“And as for my uncle”—Pavel let a tinge of discontent color his voice—”his estates should have come to me. I was his only surviving heir. But Eugene humiliated me in front of the court and gave them to one of his favorites—Roskovski, the turncoat who betrayed his own people by swearing allegiance to a Tielen—” He made his voice crack as if in suppressed anger.
“So you would have stayed at the Emperor’s court if he had awarded you your uncle’s estates?” asked Minister Vashteli in the coolest of tones.
She was not going to be easily swayed; Pavel decided he must play his trump card if he was to walk out of the chamber a free man.
He lowered his voice. “There was another reason.”
“And that was—?”
“Astasia Orlova.”
“The Empress?” Nina Vashteli raised one perfectly plucked brow.
“She was not always Empress. And there was once an . . . understanding between us.” It was, in part, true. And how could the insinuation hurt Astasia now? “We used to meet in secret at the soirées at the Villa Orlova.”
“You’re asking us to believe that you—a poor, low-ranking diplomat from Muscobar—and Altessa Astasia Orlova—” jeered Iovan.
“I would rather die than dishonor her reputation!” Pavel said hotly. “But neither can I bear to see her married to that Tielen dictator.”
Minister Vashteli was conferring with the other inquisitors.
“So what can you offer Smarna, Pavel Velemir?” she asked.
“Secrets, Madame Minister. I learned much from my uncle about the workings of the Tielen war machine and the Emperor.”
“We can get as much from questioning the prisoners,” put in Iovan sourly.
“Give me an example.” She propped her chin on her hands and stared at him, pointedly ignoring Iovan.
“Were you aware,” said Pavel, “that Eugene and his armies use a highly sophisticated communication device? And that—if you were to return to my lodgings—you would find one such concealed there, that I have stolen from the palace? One which enables me to listen in to their conversations?”
“Whoever heard such rubbish!” exploded Iovan. “Sophisticated, my ass!”
Pavel found himself taking a certain pleasure in goading the irascible Iovan to these outbursts. And he sensed that Nina Vashteli was intrigued by his revelation and growing increasingly irritated by Iovan.
“Find the device and shoot the spy,” went on Iovan. “How do we know he’s not using it to feed information on us straight back to Tielen?”
The council chamber doors opened and a small, plump woman was brought in.
“What’s this all about?” she demanded loudly. “I want an explanation—dragging me away from my housework without so much as a please or a—” And then she saw Pavel. One hand flew to her mouth.
As a little boy he had called her Chadi after the cornbread she used to make for him. She had been his mother’s cook and housekeeper at the Villa Sapara for as long as he could remember.
“Mama Chadi,” he said, his voice genuinely trembling with relief.
“Master Pavel?” She came forward haltingly, one cautious step at a time. “Look at you, all grown-up—” She reached out, tears sparkling in her eyes. “Give your old Chadi a hug; there’s a good boy!”
He would have run to her and hugged her then and there if his chains had not tugged him back.
“I’m sorry to intrude on such a touching reunion,” broke in Iovan sarcastically, “but this could all be playacting, specially arranged for our benefit.”
“Can you make a positive identification?” asked the minister, ignoring him.
“Beg your pardon, Madame?” Chadi said blankly.
“Who is this man?”
“Well you should know, Madame Minister; you’ve been up to the villa on enough occasions!” Chadi stared at her indignantly. “It’s only my special boy, Pavel Velemir, Lady Xenia’s son.”
Minister Vashteli rose to her feet.
“Accept our apologies, Pavel Velemir. We had to be sure, you understand.”
“Will you be coming back to the villa, Master Pavel?” Chadi asked. “I’ll need to send word ahead. The furniture’s all covered up with dust sheets. . . .”
“You’re not going to let him just walk out of here?” burst out Iovan.
Minister Vashteli turned to stare at Iovan. “Are you questioning my judgment, Iovan?” she asked in a voice of ice. “If we’d listened to you, an innocent man would have been executed.”
Iovan glared at her but did not answer back.
“Lukan, can you arrange some food for our guest? And transport to the villa? He looks in need of a good meal and some clean clothes.” Minister Vashteli walked briskly up to Pavel. “We would like to see this communication device of yours. I suspect we can put it to good use.”
“It’s in my luggage. Several of your loyal rebels relieved me of it when I was arrested.”
“Iovan, see to it. Bring the luggage here. We shall convene again in a few hours. And then, Pavel Velemir, you will show us how to operate your device.”
As soon as his chains were removed, Pavel hobbled straight to Mama Chadi and let himself be hugged, kissed, and properly fussed over. It was a small price to pay, he reckoned, for his life.
The blue waters of the bay slowly darkened to indigo in the balmy twilight. Elysia and Gavril stood on the villa balcony watching the new moon rise over the sea.
The sea looked so calm . . . and yet, if Gavril closed his eyes, he could still see burning ships and hear the anguished cries of drowning men. He could still feel the daemonic rage that had made him attack the Tielen fleet until his strength failed and he crashed into the waves.
“I’ve held them off for a little while,” he said. “But I know Eugene. He’ll retaliate.”
“When will this end?” Elysia said. She sounded weary and heartsore. “Is there no hope of compromise, Gavril? There’s been so much destruction already.”
“I don’t know, Mother.” It was a question that he could hardly bear to contemplate.
“She came back, Gavril,” Elysia said. “Kiukiu came back to the kastel looking for you.”
Kiukiu. How he longed to see her. And yet his heart ached at the thought of what he must tell her.
“She’s a strong-minded young woman. She was ready to set out to find you, without money, without papers.”
He almost smiled at the thought. Yes, that was just the way she was: stubborn, determined, against all the odds. “But what will she say when she sees me as I am now?”
“She’ll just be glad that you’re free, my dear. As I am.” Elysia placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Go back to Azhkendir. She’s waiting for you.”
His mother still had the same gift for reassuring him as she had when he was a boy. From the calm, steady way she spoke, he almost began to believe that he could soon be free to follow his heart.
“I’ll go, then. Just as soon as I’ve made certain there’s no immediate threat from Eugene.”
It was evening by the time Pavel returned to the citadel, no longer limping and in chains, but washed, shaved, and in fresh clothes. There were armed Smarnans everywhere, many of them young, all carrying looted Tielen carbines. They seemed in ebullient good spirits, swaggering about, flushed with cheap wine and victory. But as he passed through the first courtyard he couldn’t help noticing a cart covered with a bloodstained tarpaulin. From underneath, hands and naked feet protruded.
They had shown their Tielen prisoners no mercy. He felt a dry, sick feeling at the back of his throat. These men had been shot without a trial; they had not been accorded even the most basic of rights. Eugene would not take kindly to this barbaric treatment of his soldiers. There would be reprisals.
He was shown into the council chamber with much more civility than before. Nina Vashteli, Lukan, and the two older ministers were conferring earnestly around an open box on the table. And he couldn’t resist smiling at their evident confusion.
“Now you can settle our dispute,” Minister Vashteli said a little tartly. “Is this your communication device? Or some kind of objet d’art?”
“I suppose you could call it both,” Pavel said. He had taken a calculated risk in revealing one of the secrets of the Emperor’s intelligence network to the Smarnans. He hoped it would not end in his execution by one side or the other. He lifted the crystal out of its protective wrappings and placed it on the table.
“What does it do?” asked one of the elder ministers, scratching his head bemusedly.
“It will enable you to speak to one of the Emperor’s staff.”
“In Tielen?” Lukan said. “Or in Mirom?”
“Wherever the device has been tuned to be received. This one, a diplomatic Vox, is tuned directly to the imperial office. Others are used by the navy and army out in the field.”
“So I could address the Emperor’s diplomatic staff with this?” said Minister Vashteli. “Not some petty clerk in an obscure bureau?”
“They’ll be a little surprised that they’re being contacted from Smarna, not Francia . . . but yes.”
Nina Vashteli looked up. Her expression was grimly resolute. “Bring in the hostage,” she ordered the guards on the door.
Hostage? Pavel turned to see a portly, broad-shouldered man enter between two armed guards. His uniform coat, though tattered and stained with dirt and dried blood, showed the colors of the New Rossiyan Empire.
“This is an outrage!” he bellowed. “I demand my rights. I demand—”
“Governor Armfeld, you are about to speak to one of the Emperor’s staff. You will inform him that Smarna is no longer part of Eugene’s empire.”
“I will do no such thing,” blustered Armfeld, his face turning a choleric red. “I—”
“You will tell him that unless all empire forces are withdrawn from Smarna within thirty-six hours, we will shoot you and any other Tielen prisoners.”
“But that—that goes against the treaty!”
“Pavel?” Minister Vashteli turned to him. “Would you be so good as to make your device work for us?”
Pavel lifted off the thick glass dome and listened carefully; to his relief he could hear a faint crackling buzz emanating from the sparkling crystal. It had survived the rigors of the journey from Mirom intact.
“What’s that? A Vox Aethyria?” spluttered Armfeld. “How the devil did you get your hands on one of those? It can’t be mine; your vandals smashed it when they ransacked my quarters—”
“Good evening, Lutèce.” A distant voice issued, distorted yet audible. “What is your information?”
To his satisfaction, Pavel saw the consternation on the faces of the Smarnans. If this didn’t convince them, then—
“Lutèce?” Armfeld cried.
“This is the Smarnan council in Colchise,” Pavel said into the device, speaking slowly and carefully. “We have Governor Armfeld here.”
“Armfeld?” There was no mistaking the surprise in the reaction. “Proceed.”
The guards brought Armfeld over to the Vox Aethyria. Pavel saw the governor sigh, his shoulders sagging as he realized he had no choice but to do as he was bidden.
“Armfeld here. The rebels have taken the citadel and shot most of my men,” Armfeld mumbled into the device. “They’ll shoot me too if all imperial troops are not withdrawn in thirty-six hours.”
“Could you clarify that last point?” came back the distant response.
“They’re going to execute me! Good God, man, isn’t that clear enough? Can’t you get me out of here?” As Armfeld’s voice rose hysterically, the guards pulled him away from the table.
“You’ve missed one vital point, Governor,” said Nina Vashteli. She approached the device and bent low to speak into it with ice-clear diction. “This is Nina Vashteli, Minister of Justice for Smarna. Smarna is no longer a part of the New Rossiyan Empire. Any attempt to invade our country will be regarded as an act of war. We have powerful allies across the sea, and will not hesitate to call them to our defense if necessary.”
She rose and looked at Pavel, her eyes shrewd and cold.
“And now we wait for the Emperor’s response.”
“If you like, Madame Minister,” said Pavel in his easiest, most reasonable voice, “I can monitor the Vox Aethyria. I know how to operate it—and it’s not as if I’ve anything else to do tonight.”
The minister glanced at her fellow counselors for approval.
“We’d better supply a pot of our strongest coffee to keep you awake,” Lukan said, laughing. “You could be in for a long wait.”
Eugene was at dinner with his ministers in the Amber Dining Room when the communiqué from the Smarnan rebels was received.
He had Chancellor Maltheus read it aloud to the assembled company.
“ ‘We have powerful allies across the sea and will not hesitate to call them to our defense if necessary.’ ”
Maltheus lowered the paper and looked expectantly at Eugene. There was silence in the dining room now, as his ministers glanced uneasily at one another.
“Powerful allies?” said one. “They’re bluffing, surely.”
Eugene was pushing a crumb of cheese around his plate with one finger. He had lost his appetite.
“Emperor?” Maltheus prompted.
“Smarna’s allies? Well, we have our suspicions,” he said. Did the Vashteli woman mean Gavril Nagarian? And if so, why did she couch her threat in such ambiguous terms? “We must check with our agents in Allegonde, Tourmalise, and Francia. Has any unusual massing of troops or ships been observed?”
“So you take this threat seriously, highness?” asked the Minister of Finance. “Our coffers have taken quite a hit with the sinking of the Southern Fleet. And, of course, all the expense of the coronation. And the new uniforms for the Imperial Household Cavalry, not to mention the considerable sum in pensions that will have to be paid out to the war widows . . .”
Money. It always came down to money.
“Yes, yes, I hear you.” Eugene had no need to be reminded. But he was damned if he was going to be dictated to by some motley collection of rebels and students. “But how will it look to the rest of the world if we concede? No. Smarna is still part of New Rossiya.”
“Could we not enter into negotiations?” ventured another minister timidly.
Eugene’s fist hit the polished tabletop, making the plates and glasses rattle. “I will not negotiate with revolutionaries.”
“So our reply to Smarna—”
“General Froding and his troops are even now making their way south from the borders. Let the Smarnans work out our reply for themselves.”
“A toast,” said Maltheus hastily, raising his glass. “A toast to Froding and his brave men.”
“Victory to Froding’s Light Infantry!” The ministers clinked glasses and drank.
Eugene sent Maltheus a grateful glance over the rim of his glass. In spite of the careless bravado of his reply, he felt unsure for the first time in his military career.
Doubting my own judgment? I must be getting old.
Pavel Velemir poured himself a third cup of coffee. But after one sip, he grimaced and set the cup down; it had gone cold. It was past midnight and there had still been no response from Tielen to the Smarnans’ defiant message.
He was weary and beginning to regret his offer to stand by the Vox Aethyria. There was a comfortable bed awaiting him in the Villa Sapara. He had begun the day in chains, under threat of imminent execution. If it had not been for Mama Chadi . . .
He stood up and paced the council chamber a couple of times, stopping to stare up at the starry night sky through one of the jagged holes in the roof.
He could hear the sound of drunken singing drifting up from the taverns outside. The Smarnans were celebrating their victory. Celebrating far too soon. He knew all too well what the Emperor’s response would be. Eugene’s troops would be back. And when they least expected them.
He rubbed his tired eyes, blinking to try to keep them open.
“Well, Pavel Velemir?”
He turned around, startled, to see Nina Vashteli. The minister was dressed in a gown of dark green brocade and she wore emerald feathers in her neatly arranged hair; she must have been out to dinner.
“No answer from Tielen, Minister,” he said with a regretful smile.
“You didn’t expect one, did you?” she said, peeling off her long satin gloves, finger by finger.
“Frankly, no.”
“Neither did I. Tell me, Pavel, does your device send messages to places other than Tielen?”
“Not yet, Madame Minister.”
“A pity. It would be useful to communicate directly with our allies. We will just have to rely on more traditional methods.”
“Allies?” Pavel, tired as he was, remembered the direct threat she had made to Eugene. Had the council already summoned help from overseas? It might not be so easy to find out who had secretly allied themselves with Smarna without giving himself away.
“How long do you think we can hold out against Eugene’s troops? Tell me truthfully.” Her dark eyes fixed on his; he felt uncomfortable, as if he were being tested.
“If he attacks by land and sea? It would depend on how close his forces are to the border. He overran Azhkendir in a matter of days.”
The strains of singing came swelling up from outside again; to Pavel’s ears it sounded much like a rousing marching song.
She sighed. “How can I convince these hotheads to be patient, to wait for support? Their blood is up. I hope to God that our request for assistance will get through before Eugene’s armies come marching across the mountains.”
It is a dream and yet not a dream. Gavril slowly rises through layers of sleep to find himself enmeshed in a dark cloud shot through with jewel-bright lights that shiver through him like little lightning bolts. It is as if he has been drawn deep into the daemon’s consciousness.
“Can I trust you?” whispers the Drakhaoul. “Can I really trust you, Gavril Nagarian?” Every emotion is a shimmer of vivid color. For now Gavril can feel the daemon’s doubt and desire, a deep desire for something long unobtainable; the colors flicker from a pale, uncertain violet to a deep, rich crimson.
“You talk of trust. Yet you told me you would die if we were separated. I believed you dead, Drakhaoul; so why are you still alive?”
Another shimmer of colors, changing from the dark thunder blue of anger to softer, more conciliatory hues.
“I found another who needed me.”
“You took another host? I thought you could only meld with those of Nagarian blood.” Had the daemon not been entirely truthful with him?
“This one also has the blood of Artamon’s sons in his veins. But then I heard you calling to me. Your need was greater. And so I returned to you.”
“Did this new fusion not work so well, then?” Gavril is curious, wondering who this other host, this far-distant blood relative might be.
“You had to want me to be part of you once more, Gavril.”
“And I would have died if you had not come when you did.” He cannot hide the truth from the Drakhaoul: He feels more grateful for his life and his freedom than mere words can express.
“There is a journey I must undertake. But I cannot do it without your help. And you are not strong enough yet . . .”
“A journey? Where do you want to go?”
When it speaks again, its voice is deep-hued with longing. “I want to find a way home.”
Gavril wandered around his room, picking up his possessions and putting them down again. Here were his poetry books and the abstruse volumes of philosophy Lukan had given him when he was a student. And here were his paints and pastels, all neatly tidied away. Next to them lay his brushes, from the slender squirrel hair he used for picking out the finest details to the big, rough-bristled ones used for applying large quantities of oil paint for the background of a portrait. Each brush had been carefully cleaned and wrapped in cloth. Elysia had obviously been busy since she returned from Azhkendir.
Azhkendir. He sat down on the bed. All this time he had been so obsessed with his own struggle to survive that he had put Azhkendir out of his mind. He had even chosen to revert to using his Smarnan name: Andar.
Soon he would have to face his responsibilities. But it was one thing to help liberate Smarna, and quite another to try to put things to rights in Azhkendir. Would his druzhina even want him back? In their eyes, he had betrayed their trust. He had denied them the chance to die gloriously, defending their lord.
He needed time to come to terms with what had been done to him. Healing time. He knew that somewhere, deep inside, he was still damaged. The Drakhaoul had mended the wounds inflicted by Director Baltzar—had even miraculously repaired most of the botched surgery done to his brain. But he still felt wrong.
His easel stood in a corner, an empty canvas propped on it, already prepared for use. He walked past it a number of times. The blank canvas mocked him. Could he still paint? Or had Baltzar’s scalpel destroyed his gift?
“Gavril!”
He heard Elysia calling his name from the hall. Reluctantly, he opened his bedroom door.
“Minister Vashteli is here to see you.”
“Palmyre has just made some barley water . . .”
“Nothing for me, thank you, Elysia,” Nina Vashteli said as Gavril entered the salon. She looked directly at him. “There have been reports coming in since yesterday of large numbers of dead fish washed up on the shore. Dead gulls too.”
He saw Elysia’s hands tremble violently, spilling the barley water she had been pouring for herself.
“Can you explain this, Gavril Andar?”
He could remember little of the attack now, save the utter exhilaration as the power tore from his body in one terrifying burst of brilliant light. There had been smoke afterward . . . yet as far as he could recall, the sea breeze had gusted it away from land, toward the Tielen fleet and beyond.
“Gavril?” said Elysia. He could hear consternation in her voice. He had not thought of the damage it could do to the very people he was trying to save. And no one in Smarna, except Elysia, was protected against the deadly aftereffects of Drakhaon’s Fire.
“Well?” Nina Vashteli said, her voice stern. “Is this your doing? Is this anything to do with the weapon you used to defeat the Tielens?”
For a moment Gavril could only stand there dumbly, his mind whirling with unspeakable possibilities.
“Gavril?” said Elysia again, more gently this time.
“The beach could be polluted,” he said at last. “Let no one go there until I can be sure it is safe.”
“Polluted with what, precisely?”
“Minister.” Gavril moved closer to her. “Have there been any reports of sickness among those who were on the citadel ramparts yesterday?”
Nina Vashteli gave him a searching look. But all she said was, “I take it you have seen these aftereffects before?”
Gavril lowered his eyes.
“And I also take it that you know how to treat them?”
How could he reply to that? The only protection against Drakhaon’s Fire that he knew of was the ritual bloodbond. Was it possible it could also work as a remedy?
“Well, Gavril Andar?”
“I might. But I can’t guarantee it will work.”
Gavril hurried out into the villa gardens and followed the winding path down to the beach. Now the soft scents of pink tamarisk and lilac were nothing but a torment, reminding him of what he had done. The last part of the path was rocky, overgrown by burgeoning weeds and mean-toothed brambles that caught and clawed at his legs as he ran. He reached the sands and stared out to sea, shading his eyes as he scanned for fishing boats in the bay. But even as he looked at the glittering blue water and the pale gold of the sands, another landscape kept superimposing itself: a stark, empty, grey desolation. The Arkhel Waste in Azhkendir, blasted with Drakhaon’s Fire by his father Volkh.
He set out across the damp sands, making toward the citadel. Here, not far from the path that led up to the Villa Orlova, was where he had swooped down on the Tielen troops and seared them all to oblivion in his fury. And in spite of the lapping tide that had risen and fallen several times since his attack, he could plainly see the ash clogging the sands, the residue of charred bone and melted metal, the last remains of Eugene’s invasion force. The cinders would have washed into the bay, polluting the waters for miles around.
He sank slowly to his knees in the sand.
“Damn you, Eugene,” he said, his voice choked with bitterness. “Look what you’ve driven me to now.”