CHAPTER 35

Kiukiu wandered on over the dunes, lost in the Realm of Shadows.

“I mustn’t give up,” she said to herself. “I know I can find my way back to the way I came in.” A whirlwind came twisting across the arid plain, a dark spiral of swirling shadows. She raised a hand to her eyes, trying to keep out the dust and grit.

To her horror she saw agonized, distorted faces in the spiral, heard distant cries, high and inhuman as the shriek of the merciless wind. And it was coming straight toward her.

She began to run, her feet slipping in the dry grey sands, trying to find a place to shelter. But whichever way she turned, the whirlwind seemed to follow her. And now it was gaining on her. It would sweep her up and she would never find her way back. . . .

She could hear the roar of the fast-approaching funnel; she could feel the pull that would suck her up and spit her out far away from her only way home. She threw herself to the ground, burrowing into the sand with both hands like an animal.

The whirlwind passed on across the plain, and she came up blinking from her burrow, spitting out grains of sand.

And then she saw a luminous glimmer of gold and blue through the blowing dust. Those brilliant colors, so bright in this dull place . . .

She began to stagger toward it, one hand outstretched. The dust clouds parted a moment and she saw the Drakhaoul in all its shimmering daemon-splendor—and borne in its powerful arms was Lord Gavril.

“Gavril!” she screamed, trying to make herself heard above the shriek of the wind. “Gavril, I’m here! Can’t you hear me? It’s Kiukiu!”

He lifted his head, almost as if he had heard her. But the howl of the winds was so loud that her voice was drowned. And as she stumbled on toward them, she saw the Drakhaoul winging away into the distance.

“No!” she cried. “Don’t leave me!” Another whirlwind was spinning fast toward her. Why couldn’t they see her? “Gavril!” She tripped in the sand and fell. The deafening drone of the whirlwind bore down on her. This time there was no escape. She was sucked into the spiral and borne fast and far away over the bleak plain.

 

“Gavril, I’m here! Can’t you hear me? It’s Kiukiu! Don’t leave me. . . .”

“Kiukiu?” He can hear her distantly calling to him through a roar of wind and dust. “Where are you?”

“Wake up, Gavril Nagarian.” The repeated command inside his skull brought Gavril back to his senses. He was lying on his back on the volcanic sand of Ty Nagar, washed up by the receding tide. “Wake up!”

He spat out a mouthful of seawater and tried to roll over. Pain shot down his shoulder and arm, ending in an agony of fire. He began to realize he had been badly injured in the battle with Eugene. “But still alive,” said Khezef wryly.

“Are you sure?” he murmured in a charred voice.

“Belberith has gone.”

“And with him, Eugene.” Gavril wanted nothing but to crawl back into the sea and lose himself in its cold depths. “I failed. I failed to stop him.”

“This time, maybe. But your world is changing. It’s started. Already.”

Overhead the sky had gone dark, as if a storm was on its way. A cold, dry wind tossed the branches this way and that. He had heard a wind like that when he was drowning . . . and the Drakhaoul had brought him back to this world. That was when he heard her calling to him.

“Kiukiu,” he said. The Magus had been here with Eugene; Gavril had glimpsed him far below, watching their duel. Where was he now, damn him? Had he gone too, well-satisfied with the evil deed he had helped his master commit? “We must go back to find her. Must go to Swanholm. Before Linnaius gets back.”

The sky grew darker.

“Is it night?” Gavril slowly dragged himself up the shore.

“Not yet.”

“Then what? . . .” He raised his head and found he was staring through the blasted trees directly at the Serpent Gate. The darkness was seeping from the Gate itself, from Nagar’s gaping jaws. The red eye no longer shone like a beacon. But on either side of the arch he became aware of a ripple of movement. Grey stone had melted to translucent color. Daemon-eyes glimmered in the darkness: scarlet, gold, and violet. Each distorted form was slowly uncurling from its rigid position beneath Nagar’s outswept wings.

“Khezef, what’s happening?”

“Eugene opened the Serpent Gate. He set them free.”

Gavril heard the words but did not fully understand.

“But—you told me the Gate was the way home. You told me, you told my grandfather: ‘wFind the Eye, open the Gate and then, I promise you, you will be free.’ “ Had Khezef been deceiving him?

“The Gate leads back to the Realm of Shadows, our eternal prison.”

“So it was never your way home?” All the time Gavril was speaking, he was watching the Drakhaouls unfurl transparent wings, stretch slender arms, taloned hands. Colors swirled through their limbs like oil spilled in water. They were possessed of a deadly beauty; he could sense the raw power that emanated from them.

Suddenly all three rose from the stone arch and swept toward Gavril, enveloping him in a swirling cloud, fiery colors and emotions mingled, so brilliant and intense that he nearly fainted.

“My brothers,” he heard Khezef cry. “Araziel. Nilaihah. Adramelech.”

“Brothers?” Gavril echoed. The daemons circled his head once more and then swept away across the sea like a whirlwind.

“We were banished from our true home long, long ago. I do not know if we can ever find our way back.”

“But—but you told me you cannot survive for long in our world on your own.”

“It is true. Now they must find human hosts.”

Khezef—you lied to me.” He felt betrayed. “You told me it would be our final parting. That I would be free—and so would you.”

“Don’t you understand, Gavril Nagarian? Any kind of existence is preferable to the Realm of Shadows. We are creatures of light. The Realm of Shadows is torment, a living death to us. Now that the Gate has been breached, others will follow.”

Gavril sank down, hands clasped to his head. “What have you done, Eugene?” he murmured. “What have you unleashed on us all?”

And then, in the depths of his mind, he thought he caught a last, faint cry: “Gavril . . . don’t leave me. . . .”

He could do nothing now to stop Khezef’s brothers. But he could use Khezef’s strength to help him find Kiukiu. Damn it all, he would force Khezef to help him.

“Swanholm,” he said. “We must make Swanholm.”

 

Celestine de Maunoir stood outside Kaspar Linnaius’s rooms, her hands raised, testing. The Magus’s wards had repelled her every time she had tried to break them before, sending unpleasant shocks through her hand and arm that lingered for hours afterward. But this time, armed with the only keepsake her father had left her, his grimoire, which he had hidden in the mattress of her little bed the night he was arrested, she had found an incantation, “To Break Down Mysterious Barricades.” She murmured the words three times, knocking on the invisible door in the initiate’s fashion.

No one had challenged her. All the servants were busy clearing up after the ball. Many of the household were wandering dazedly around as if still in a drunken stupor. But then, she was well-known here as the Empress’s intimate companion. Why should they wonder what she was doing?

Although she saw nothing alter, she felt the air ripple as though an invisible curtain had been drawn back. And when she raised her gloved hand to open the door, she met no resistance. The gloves were another precaution; Linnaius was almost certain to have left some trace of alchymical poison on the handles to snare the unwary.

The door swung inward. She went in, muttering the incantation again, just for good measure. And then she let out a cry of surprise.

“Well?” said Jagu, who had been waiting at the foot of the stairs.

“Come and see.”

A young woman lay on the bed, still as death, her skin pale, her eyes open and staring, as if at some horror only she could see.

“Is she dead?” Jagu asked. “If so, we have more than enough evidence against him.”

Celestine knelt and held a glass to her lips. “Look,” she said, showing him the blurring made by the slightest trace of breath. “She’s alive.” She touched the young woman’s shoulder. She shook her. “Wake up!” she cried. The young woman made no response at all.

“Alive, yet not alive,” said Jagu. “He’s stolen her soul.”

“What has he been using her for, I wonder?” Celestine said with a shudder of disgust.

“Is this hers, do you think?” Jagu pointed to a painted wooden zither that lay on the table. He plucked a few notes, which resounded with a strange metallic timbre. “It doesn’t look like the kind of instrument a Magus would play. It’s too crude, too unrefined. And it needs tuning,” he added dryly.

Celestine rose. “We have much to do. He could return at any minute. Is the carriage ready?”

“Are we just going to leave her here like this?”

“We must travel fast,” said Celestine, “and she would only prove a burden. She must have family close by; let them care for her.”

 

The Drakhaon Eugene flew over the red deserts of Djihan-Djihar, making for the coast. Ahead lay Smarna and the cooler shores of his empire. His veins pulsed with daemonic power. His whole body was filled with energy and light. He felt invincible.

He had drawn the Smarnan rebels’ teeth. Or, more precisely, he had beaten Gavril Nagarian into submission. Now Smarna had no daemonic powers to defend it, and the rebels would be hunted down one by one and tried for their crimes. Pavel Velemir must have compiled a sizeable dossier on the ringleaders by now.

He still relished the moment he had swooped down on Gavril Nagarian and seared him with Belberith’s virulent green fire, sending him crashing into the sea. The sky duel was the most exhilarating battle he had ever fought.

That just left the unannounced presence of the Francian fleet off Smarna. And what better way to determine their purpose than from the air? If there were just a few ships escorting their king on his pilgrimage to the ancient holy sites and temples, then New Rossiya had nothing to fear. But if the ships numbered more than a dozen . . .

The waters beneath him were a softer green now that he had left Djihan-Djihar far behind, no longer the intense, hot blue of the distant Azure Ocean. And the rocky outline of the distant shore, with little bays and inlets, must be Smarna.

“But what are all those ships?”

White sails billowed from a forest of masts. And on each mast flew the flag of Francia, a golden salamander on a white background.

“Enguerrand!” he hissed.

He circled high overhead, counting the ships in the bay beneath. There were two dozen men-o’-war, bristling with cannons and at least another dozen frigates. At the center of the formation was the royal flagship, flying the black and gold pennant of the Commanderie. They outnumbered his Southern Fleet by four to one.

“And if Gavril Nagarian hadn’t sunk half my warships in this very bay . . .” He began to descend, seeing the shadow of his great wings darkening the water. Fire filled his mind, fire and destruction. He could take out the royal flagship and set the sails alight on the men-o’-war.

“Drakhaoul,” he cried aloud, concentrating his sights on Enguerrand’s ship.

“No.” Belberith’s voice whispered. “You do not have enough strength for another attack.”

“Not enough strength?” Eugene had thought the Drakhaouls invincible, their power inexhaustible.

“You have barely enough strength to reach your home without replenishing yourself.” Was that a tinge of mockery in the daemon’s words? “You must conserve what little energy we have left between us. If you attack these ships, you will fall into the sea and drown.”

Even as Belberith spoke, Eugene realized he was right; his wings were beating more slowly and his sight was less clear, as though a sea mist had hazed his vision. And now he could feel his own heart laboring in his breast to keep himself aloft.

And for the first time since he fused with the Drakhaoul Belberith, he remembered Gavril Nagarian’s warning, spoken back in the prison cell in Mirom.

“It winds itself into your will, your consciousness, until you no longer know who is in control.”

Who is in control now? Is it me—or Belberith?