CHAPTER 13

“If I never see another turnip again, it’ll be too soon,” sighed Ninusha, scraping away one by one at an earthy pile of root vegetables.

“What rubbish you talk sometimes, Ninny.” Ilsi flounced past and slammed down a pile of greasy pots in front of Kiukiu without a word. “ ‘Never see another turnip again,’ ” she mimicked in a singsong voice. “You should listen to yourself!”

“Look at my hands. My nails are always chipped and dirty. Why can’t those Tielens give us some decent food to cook?”

Kiukiu glanced at her hands as she plunged the pots into the water. Her nails, so carefully hardened for playing the gusly, had become soft with all this washing and scrubbing.

“You’re lucky there’s any food to eat at all,” came Sosia’s reply from the pantry. “If it weren’t for the Tielens bringing their army supplies, we’d have starved by now.”

“But Tielen army rations—” Ninusha pulled a face. “Pigs eat better.”

“Not Kastel Drakhaon pigs.” Sosia came out and pulled up a handful of peelings from the floor and examined them critically. “You’re wasting too much, Ninusha. Cut finer, girl.”

“I am—ow!” Ninusha dropped the knife and sucked her finger. “Now see what you’ve made me do, Sosia. I’m bleeding!”

“Go find a cobweb to put on it.” Sosia took up the paring knife and began scraping away at the half-peeled turnip Ninusha had abandoned.

It’s as if nothing has changed, Kiukiu thought, scrubbing at a hard rim of dried soup-scum. It’s as if Lord Gavril had never come back. Did I dream it all?

And then she felt a strange, unsettling sensation, as though a gust of cold, elemental wind had blown through the kitchen. The little hairs stood up on her arms.

A Tielen soldier appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Which one of you is Kiukiu?” he asked.

Kiukiu sensed the others were staring at her. “I am,” she said, letting the pot sink back into the dirty water.

“You are to come with me. Now.”

Kiukiu hesitated a moment, wondering what this meant. She was sure it could not be good, whatever it was. She dried her hands on her apron and followed the soldier from the kitchen.

“What has my niece done?” cried Sosia. “Let me accompany her—”

The soldier put out one arm as if to prevent her. “She is to come alone.”

They passed Ninusha on her way back from binding her finger.

“Been a naughty girl, have you, Kiukiu?” whispered Ninusha. “Is the captain going to punish you?”

Kiukiu paid no attention; she felt again that unsettling sensation, as if every room of the kastel had been infiltrated by eddies of moorland wind. And as they approached the door to the Kalika Tower, the sensation grew stronger.

“In here.” The soldier held the door open. “Up the stairs.”

“In Lord Gavril’s study?” She hung back, the sense of apprehension increasing. “Why?”

“Go on up,” he ordered, giving her a little push.

Reluctantly, she began to climb the spiral stair.

 

Kaspar Linnaius opened the door to the Drakhaon’s study. A little sigh of satisfaction escaped his lips.

Books. Maps. Star charts.

Even though the tower had been damaged in the bombardment, he saw that the empty windowframes had been patched with parchment and the holes in the wall filled. That alone told him that the contents of this room were of considerable importance to Gavril Nagarian.

“So this is where the great warlords of Azhkendir planned their campaigns.”

He could not resist rubbing his hands together at the sight of so many books. And here, on the desk, left open as though the Drakhaon had been interrupted in the midst of his researches, lay several ancient volumes with underlinings and footnotes scribbled in red ink.

“Ahh,” he said aloud, picking up the uppermost book and murmuring the words under his breath as he read:

“ ‘There lies one island far to the south, dominated by the cone of a volcanic peak, said by the people of these isles to be sacred to the powerful Serpent God of their ancestors.’ ”

A little stain of reddish-brown, darker than the crimson ink, spotted the margin; it looked like human blood. Linnaius read on:

“ ‘. . . the priests of the Serpent God, Nagar, built a great temple to their god, at the heart of which was a gateway to the Realm of Shadows.’ ”

“Nagar!” he murmured triumphantly. The same name that he had read in the concealed text at the monastery. This could be no coincidence. The House of Nagarian could well be named after this ancient Serpent God.

“ ‘From this gateway they conjured powerful daemon-spirits to do their bidding—’ ”

The door opened and a young woman appeared. He looked at her, sensing in spite of her drab servant’s clothes a distinctive and radiant aura.

Could she be one of the Azhkendi Spirit Singers?

But all he said was, “Come in, Kiukiu. I have been waiting for you.”

 

Kiukiu stared at the man. She had thought doddery Guaram was the most ancient person she had known, but this wispy-haired stranger looked so frail he must be even older than Guaram.

“Sit down.” His voice, though quiet, was authoritative. Appearances could be deceptive. Here was the source of that glamorous power she had sensed. Who was he—and what did he want with her?

“I bring you news of Gavril Nagarian.”

“Gavril!” She cried his name aloud before she could stop herself; too late she clapped both hands over her mouth. But there had been no news in such a long time—

“Please sit down.”

“Is it bad news?” People told you to sit down before breaking ill tidings: sickness, disaster, death . . . Let him still be alive, she prayed silently.

“He is alive,” said the old man, as though he had read her thoughts, “but he is confined in an asylum.”

“ ‘An asylum’? Isn’t that where they send people who are mad?” Tears of distress filled Kiukiu’s eyes. And then she felt anger welling up from deep inside her. She knew only too well what the druzhina did to their prisoners. “Mad, or driven mad? Has he been tortured?”

“As to the cause of his madness, we hoped you could enlighten us, Kiukiu.” The old man gazed at her with his cold, pale eyes. For a moment she felt dizzy, whirled high into a spiral of cloud and wind. Then she blinked—and found she was sitting down opposite the old man. How long had she been absent? And what had he done to her in that time?

“Who are you?” she whispered, gazing warily at him.

“My name is Kaspar Linnaius.”

“Is it my fault, Kaspar Linnaius, that Gavril is . . .” She could not say the word “mad.” “Is it because he drove out that daemon-creature to save me?”

“How did he drive it out, Kiukiu?”

“My grandmother Malusha helped him.”

“Malusha,” repeated Linnaius pensively.

Kiukiu had the horrible feeling that, in merely naming her grandmother, she had in some obscure way betrayed her.

“And what skills did your grandmother use to do what countless mages and doctors of science had failed to achieve?”

“How is this to help Gavril?” burst out Kiukiu.

“I have it on the authority of the Emperor himself,” Linnaius said, suddenly formal, “that if you answer my questions honestly and truthfully, you will be granted a visit.”

Kiukiu’s mouth dropped open. Her heart began to flutter. All she could think was that she would see him again, after all these long months—

“So how did your grandmother cast out the daemon?”

“She is a Spirit Singer. A Guslyar, like me.” Now she could not stop herself from answering his questions. A visit, her heart sang, a visit . . .

“And Guslyars cast out daemons?” The quiet, insistent questions kept coming.

“Guslyars can travel between this life and the Ways Beyond.”

“So you are shamans?”

“I don’t know that word.”

“You talk to the dead?”

Kiukiu gave a shiver. “Sometimes they talk to us. They ask us to bring them across, back into life.”

“I would like to meet your grandmother.”

Kiukiu, the trance shattered, looked up at Kaspar Linnaius in alarm. What secrets had she blabbed out to this stranger? Malusha would be so angry with her.

“Gavril Nagarian needs your help, Kiukiu.”

Kiukiu nodded slowly. “I’ll take you to her.”

Forgive me, Grandma, she begged silently. It’s just that I can’t stop loving Gavril, no matter how hard I try. Can you remember what it was like to love someone like that?

 

The cloudy waters of the monastery fishpond gave little hint as to what stirred beneath the lily pads; only the occasional telltale bubble burst on the surface.

Abbot Yephimy had been sitting patiently in the sunshine, waiting for a tug on his line for over an hour. He was in no hurry. The fishponds were at the farthest end of the monastery gardens and the abbot was relishing the solitude, listening to the twittering of the little birds fluttering to and fro in the nearest forest trees, the hum of the bees busy collecting pollen from the meadow flowers . . .

“Two pilgrims are here, asking to speak with you, Abbot,” announced a voice suddenly.

Abbot Yephimy started and saw young Brother Timofei on the other side of the pond.

“Ssh! You’ll frighten the fish.”

“Sorry, Abbot.” Timofei went bright red.

Yephimy sighed and laid down his fishing rod. His peaceful moment was at an end. In truth he knew he was fortunate to have snatched so long in the sunshine undisturbed.

Brother Timofei led the way back through the kitchen gardens; Yephimy cast a knowledgeable eye over the progress of their vegetables as he walked.

“Those early onions need thinning out, Brother Timofei. And the first crop of radishes are ready.”

Spring radishes for supper with fresh bread, butter, and salt, Yephimy thought with pleasure as they approached the main courtyard.

“Who are these pilgrims and what do they want?” he asked.

“They say they wish to pray in Saint Sergius’s shrine. But they’re not Azhkendi.”

Yephimy saw the visitors waiting at the door to the shrine. They wore black robes and their heads were cowled; it was not the habit of any religious order he recognized. The taller of the two leaned on a metal staff.

“Welcome to Saint Sergius, my brothers,” he said warmly, opening his arms wide to greet them. They turned, and he saw with surprise that one was a woman.

“We are members of the Francian Commanderie, Abbot,” said the man. He spoke the common tongue with an unfamiliar accent, which made him slightly difficult to understand. “Is there anywhere more private where we could talk?”

Yephimy took them to his study.

“Now, what is this really about?” he asked. Pilgrims did not usually request private audiences; they preferred to spend their time praying in the shrine.

“The leader of our order has been monitoring the disquieting growth of daemonic activity in this part of the world. We have been sent to investigate.”

“Ah,” said Yephimy, folding his hands together. “The Drakhaoul.”

“Is that its Azhkendi name?” said the woman.

Yephimy frowned at her. “It has never revealed its true name. And your leader will be pleased to learn that the daemon has been cast out.”

“Cast out, maybe, but not destroyed,” said the man. “Members of our order tracked it along the Straits. We believe it may have gone to ground in Muscobar.”

“What?” This was news to Yephimy. Disturbing news. “It’s still at large?” And he had been so certain Malusha had banished it; he had witnessed its last desperate flight from the shrine.

“We believe so. And that is why the Grand Master of our order has commissioned the reforging of Sergius’s Staff.”

“Sergius’s Staff?” Yephimy repeated, bemused. “You have Sergius’s Staff? But how? The Chronicles state that it was shattered in Sergius’s last battle with the Drakhaoul.” He rose, staring at them with suspicion. “Exactly who are you—and what is this Commanderie?”

“We are Companions of the Order of Saint Sergius, Abbot,” said the man. “Our order is dedicated to the destruction of all daemonic influences in the world. As for the staff, well, legend has it that the founder of our order, Argantel, fled Azhkendir with the shattered pieces and had it repaired in Francia. All the pieces—save one: the crook, which we understand you keep here, in the shrine.”

“Lord Argantel was Sergius’s friend,” said Yephimy slowly. “But the Chronicles do not record what became of him.” He did not know whether to believe these two strangers who spoke so knowledgeably of secret matters known only to the monks at the monastery. “So. Show me this relic.”

The man placed his metal staff on Yephimy’s desk and unscrewed the top. He tipped the shaft gently and out slid an ancient, charred length of wood, fragments bound into a whole with bands of golden wire.

Yephimy put out one hand and touched it. He felt a slight tingle in his fingers as though the ancient wood still vibrated with a vestige of the saint’s power. He stared at it, overcome by awe . . . and a distinct pang of envy.

“This should be kept here, with Serzhei’s bones.” Yephimy looked at the two visitors hopefully. “Have you come to return it to the shrine?”

“You misunderstand our intentions, Abbot.” The man’s eyes hardened. “We are on the trail of this daemon. We intend to use the staff to destroy it.”

“But there are others on its trail too,” said the woman, “and what they intend endangers us all. Have you had any visitors here at the shrine, claiming to be scholars researching the Sergius archive?”

“Why, yes. One called Kaspar Linnaius was here recently, on the Emperor’s business.”

“Kaspar Linnaius?” The woman exchanged a glance with the man. They seemed concerned—and also excited.

“Were you aware, Abbot,” said the man, his lean face drawn, “that some of the manuscripts here contain hidden texts? Texts that only the most skilled adepts can unlock? Texts that hide secrets better left unrevealed?”

“Of course I am.” Yephimy felt as if he were being reprimanded for some ecclesiastical misdemeanor.

“And that one of your manuscripts may hide the location of the other four daemon-warriors that Sergius defeated and turned to stone?”

This was news to Yephimy. He felt humiliated that he had been revealed to know nothing of these treasures; first the staff, and now a secret map . . .

“Will you give us Sergius’s golden crook?” said the woman. “So that we can defeat the daemon and send it back to the Realm of Shadows?”

Yephimy sighed. If he refused, they might suspect him of harboring some secret sympathy with the Drakhaoul. And yet, to hand over one of the shrine’s most sacred treasures to these strangers . . .

“I cannot answer for my brothers without consulting them,” he said. “But I offer you the hospitality of the monastery while we discuss your proposition.”

The man leaned forward and placed his hand on the abbot’s arm, staring intently into his face. “This matter is urgent. I beg you, Abbot, do not discuss too long.”

 

“What have you done, Kiukiu? Why have you brought him here?”

Malusha stood in the doorway of her cottage as if trying to prevent them from entering. Her eyes were dark, narrowed in an expression of bitter hatred and distrust.

“Him?” Kiukiu rubbed her eyes. She had the oddest feeling that she had just flown across the moors from Kastel Drakhaon, skimming high like a grey-winged goose returning to its spring breeding grounds. “H-how did I get here?”

“What have you done to my grandchild?” Malusha hurried across the courtyard, scattering hens in front of her, and put her arm around Kiukiu. “What spell have you laid on her?”

Kiukiu slowly realized that Malusha was not talking to her anymore, but to Kaspar Linnaius, who stood silently beside her.

“This is Kasp—” she began.

“I know who he is,” Malusha said, still staring frostily at Linnaius. “And what he is. But I don’t know what brings him here when he’s quite aware he’s not welcome.”

“I come on the Emperor Eugene’s business,” said Linnaius. “The same Eugene who was patron to Jaromir Arkhel while he lived, and is now godfather to his son, Stavyomir.”

“His son?” Malusha seemed utterly confounded. “An heir?”

“The Emperor has named young Stavyomir the next Arkhaon of Azhkendir. I thought you might be aware of the fact, as you served the Arkhel family for so many years.”

Malusha was silent a moment. Then she said, “I think you’d better come in.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me, Kiukiu?” Malusha whispered angrily as Linnaius walked past them and into the cottage. “About the Arkhel child?”

“I didn’t know for sure,” Kiukiu whispered back, cowed by her grandmother’s wrath.

“And now you’ve brought that cursed wind-mage here.”

“I didn’t bring him! He brought me.”

“Don’t argue, child. What does he want?”

“Information for the good of the empire,” said Linnaius. In spite of his great age, his hearing was obviously still extremely acute, thought Kiukiu resentfully.

“It’d better be for the good,” Malusha said, shutting the door hastily as one of the hens attempted to follow them inside, “seeing as how you had the ill manners to break through my veil of concealment.”

The instant the Magus entered the cottage, there had been a stirring and a shuffling among the roosting snow owls perched high above their heads. Linnaius glanced up and Kiukiu saw him blink in astonishment.

“And now you’ve disturbed my lords and ladies,” complained Malusha. “They’re very suspicious of strangers and they get very moody at this time of year. You don’t want to go startling them; they can be vicious when they’ve got a clutch of eggs to protect.”

“Believe me, I have no intention of harming them,” Linnaius said, fastidiously drawing his gown up to avoid a pile of owl droppings. “Or their chicks.”

“So what is the information your Emperor wants from me?”

“You cast out the daemon-spirit, the one that calls itself Drakhaoul?”

“I did,” said Malusha stiffly.

“That was a considerable achievement.”

“I could not have done it if Lord Gavril had not wished it so,” Malusha said, still coldly formal.

“But you did not send it back to the Ways Beyond?”

“And where would I have taken it in the Ways Beyond?”

Kiukiu sensed a growing tension between the two. A glowing stick on the fire suddenly snapped, sending a hiss of sparks up the chimney, and she jumped.

“It was not a dead soul, Kaspar Linnaius, seeking expiation for its sins.” Malusha’s voice grew softer. “Even that dread place of dust and despair that we dare not name is not its true home.”

“Then”—Linnaius drew closer to her—”what is it?”

“Why do you need to know?” Malusha asked slyly.

“There seems to be a connection between the daemon and the Emperor’s young daughter.” For the first and only time, Kiukiu heard Linnaius falter. Was it possible that this cold, calculating old man still nourished a little warmth in his heart?

Malusha shrugged. “What’s that to us?”

“She insists the daemon is still at large somewhere in our world. And now that there is an Arkhel heir for you to protect—”

“I cast the daemon out from Gavril Nagarian, but it was too strong for me. It fled before I could destroy it.”

“Then this will interest you. I have learned from my researches that only one man was ever strong enough to imprison such aethyric daemons: Serzhei of Kerjhenezh.”

“Your point, wind-mage?”

“I have not the skills to talk to the dead, but you and your granddaughter—”

“Have you any idea of the risk in such a venture?” Malusha shook her grey head. “Serzhei is long dead. He has traveled far, deep into the Ways Beyond—”

“I’ll do it,” said Kiukiu suddenly, impulsively.

“You’ll do no such thing!”

“I’ll do it if you let me visit him,” Kiukiu said to Linnaius.

“Him? Oh no. You’re not still hankering after the Nagarian boy?” Malusha turned on the Magus. “What nonsense have you filled her head with?”

“A visit can be arranged.” The Magus’s pale eyes rested on Kiukiu.

Malusha seized hold of Kiukiu’s hand and pressed, none too gently, on each of her fingertips in turn.

“Ow!” Kiukiu snatched her hand away.

“Soft as butter,” her grandmother said disapprovingly. “When was the last time you did any practice, hm? As I thought.”

“I couldn’t play the gusly in the kastel,” Kiukiu protested. “Not with all those Tielen soldiers around.”

“I would prefer to interrogate Serzhei myself,” said the Magus.

“And well you might, but what you’re asking is not only dangerous, it’s very difficult.”

“So you’re saying such a meeting is beyond your abilities?”

Kiukiu heard the challenge and knew that her grandmother would be unable to resist.

Malusha glared at the Magus. “Do you know nothing of our craft? I can only bring a dead spirit back to this world with a lock of hair, a bone, or some such thing to anchor it here. Unless you’re willing to offer your body for it to inhabit? I thought not. And I’m not in the business of creating spirit-wraiths, so don’t even ask.” She glanced accusingly at Kiukiu, who felt her cheeks burning at the memory of what she had once unwittingly done.

Malusha had worked steadily since winter to repair her broken gusly; now she took it down from the shelf and unwrapped it from its brightly colored wool blanket. Kiukiu found a layer of fine dust had settled on her instrument; she gave a surreptitious puff to blow the dust away.

“Ha!” Malusha said, missing nothing. “So now we shall have to waste valuable time tuning this neglected instrument.” She handed Kiukiu the little iron key she used to tighten slack strings. “And you’d better use a plectrum or you’ll cut your fingers.”

It felt odd to Kiukiu to sit and hold the gusly again after so many long weeks of housework at the kastel. Just to pluck the strings and feel the resonances reverberate through her body reminded her of what she had been forced to bury deep within her. Now she felt a sense of liberation. Here she had no need to pretend; she could be who she truly was: a Spirit Singer.

When the tuning was finally done to her satisfaction, she looked up from the gusly and saw her grandmother gazing at her intently, the firelight glinting in her eyes.

“We’re going together, child. You’ve never had to travel so deep into the Ways before. There are dangers you’ve never even imagined in your darkest dreams.”

Kiukiu nodded, secretly relieved not to have to go alone.

“And while we’re gone,” Malusha said, turning to Linnaius, “you can make sure the fire doesn’t go out. And no mage-mischief while we’re away, or my lords and ladies will peck your eyes out.” She picked up the gusly and struck a slow succession of notes. “Kiukiu, copy me. This is the Golden Scale. We’ll need it where we’re going.”

“The Golden Scale?” Kiukiu had forgotten until now that she still had much to learn. And she needed all her concentration to copy the unfamiliar sequence of pitches that Malusha was plucking. Yet she did discern a golden quality to the music they were creating. The air seemed to glow with the richness of the sound. A gilded mist filled the little room and the firelight grew dim, receding until there was only the throb of each note, as warm as rays of evening sunlight, and she was rising through sunset clouds in a glory of bronze and gold.

“I’ve never been here before, have I?”

“This is the deepest I’ve ever taken you, child.” Malusha was skimming upward beside her, and now Kiukiu saw her grandmother as a tall young woman again, her braided hair brown, her voice strong and true, her back straight.

“We could be sisters,” Kiukiu said with heartfelt emotion. “I always wanted a sister.”

“Pay attention!” Malusha snapped. “Even here, you must be on your guard. Even here, Lost Souls can waylay and entrap you to feed on your life force. Never forget—we are intruders.”

“A bossy older sister,” Kiukiu whispered. And then the burnished clouds parted and a distant sound breathed through the air like a perfumed breeze.

“I can hear music,” said Kiukiu, gazing around her. “Singing. Such strange, beautiful singing . . .”

“This is going to be harder than I thought.”

“Why?” Kiukiu felt herself drawn toward the sound of the singing. She began to drift in the direction of the music.

Malusha stopped her.

“But I want to go and join in—”

“We’re trespassing here to help your Lord Gavril, though heaven knows why; he doesn’t deserve it for what he did to you. Now stay close and don’t wander off.”

Ahead of them, crowning a little hill, stood a high-walled garden; Kiukiu could see tall cedars rising above the weathered stones of the wall as well as oaks and white-flowering chestnuts. They reached the top of the hill and found themselves in front of finely wrought, gilded iron-work gates.

As Malusha raised her hand to push the gates open, two gold-armored warriors suddenly appeared, barring their way with crossed scimitars. Half-blinded by the light radiating from their faces, Kiukiu threw up one hand to shield her eyes.

“We are pilgrims from Azhkendir,” said Malusha. “We seek counsel from the Blessed Serzhei.”

“Serzhei’s work in Azhkendir is complete,” said one of the warriors. His voice rang out like a brazen trumpet call. “Why do you disturb his rest?”

“A daemon-warrior is at large in our world. It calls itself the Drakhaoul.”

Kiukiu ventured a glance through her fingers at the warriors. Though light still shimmered around them like wings of golden flames, she managed a glimpse of their faces, at once terrible and beautiful, as they consulted each other with a look.

One slowly pointed to the ragged scars on Kiukiu’s throat. Kiukiu gave a little cry when the scarred skin began to burn, as though a fiery liquid had been dripped onto her body. She looked down and saw the scars were glowing. Her hands flew, too late, to cover her throat.

“You bear the mark of a Drakhaoul.”

“All the more reason for us to seek Serzhei’s help,” said Malusha dryly.

“You know well enough, Spirit Singer,” said the first, “that such a thing is forbidden.”

“Why?” burst out Kiukiu.

“You are trespassers here. You must return to the world of the living.”

“Very well,” Malusha said, though Kiukiu heard not the slightest hint of resignation in her voice. “Come, child.” She strode off away from the gate, Kiukiu hurrying after.

“So we’re just going to give up?” Kiukiu cried.

“You heard, Kiukiu, we’re trespassers.” But Malusha was not going back down the hill, she was skirting the edge of the walled garden.

“Ah.” Kiukiu understood what her grandmother intended; here, in the Ways Beyond, walls were not necessarily a barrier to Spirit Singers. “But won’t they come after us?” She glanced uneasily over her shoulder, expecting to see the winged guardians swooping down on them.

“Without a doubt. But is that going to stop us?” Malusha stopped and gazed up at the wall. “It shouldn’t be too difficult to shin up here; there are plenty of toe-holds.” And she started up the wall, grunting as she pulled herself aloft.

Kiukiu could not help giggling. Her grandma was climbing over the wall, just like a little girl scrumping apples!

“Don’t dawdle,” Malusha hissed from the top and disappeared over the other side. Kiukiu began to climb, and though the stones grated against her fingers as she clung on, she found she could clamber upward as easily as if she weighed nothing whatsoever. She jumped down, landing beside Malusha on gravel between the tall chestnuts.

They stood in a formal garden with knots and winding paths and intricately cut topiary. The sound of running water came from fountains playfully carved to resemble whiskered carp, which sprayed crystal jets into the air from their pursed mouths. Kiukiu recognized herbs growing in the beds as they walked past and heard the summery droning of bees among the cloudy banks of lavender.

“It’s just like the monastery gardens back home,” she said, surprised.

“Where else do you think a monk would want to be?” Malusha strode on, plunging into a dark maze of high yew hedges, with Kiukiu still lagging behind. “And keep up! I don’t want to have to search for you too.”

At the heart of the maze, they came into a round garden with a sundial at its center.

“Here it is always summer,” said a gentle voice. Kiukiu saw a grey-robed man rise from a garden seat and come slowly toward them. She did not need to shield her eyes when she looked at him, although no matter how hard she blinked, she did not quite seem able to focus on his features.

So this is our patron saint, Serzhei. Awed, Kiukiu found she had lost her voice. He seemed so mild-mannered for a vanquisher of daemons.

“We have come to ask for your guidance, Serzhei,” said Malusha. Her tone was much more respectful now than when she had answered the warriors at the gates. “How did you banish the daemons from the world of the living?”

For a while, Serzhei did not answer, nodding his head as if lost in contemplation. All Kiukiu could hear was the splash of the fountains and the droning of the bees.

“I could not have banished them had I not called upon the Heavenly Guardians to help me. And even then, the one you name Drakhaoul burned me with his cold fire and I died, my task incomplete. But there is more. Let me show you.”

He beckoned them toward the sundial. As they drew near, he placed both hands, palms down, on the ancient stone. Kiukiu blinked again as the center of the dial melted away. Tiny, jewel-bright figures, like the illuminations drawn by the monks in the library at Saint Sergius, moved across a painted landscape, complete with a tiny range of mountains and barques bobbing on a choppy sea.

“You must understand that the danger was too great to ignore. Artamon’s sons were tempted in their arrogance to summon daemons to settle their bitter rivalry. It had to be stopped or all Rossiya would have been seared to an arid wasteland.”

Kiukiu was staring at one of the figures; there was a dark glitter about it that she recognized only too well.

“Drakhaoul,” she said softly.

“That is the name it devised for itself in Azhkendir, but it has an older, more ancient name. Once it was kin to the guardians you saw at the gateway.”

“The ones with the golden armor?” Kiukiu found the idea almost impossible to conceive. “But they’re angels—”

“Even angels can be tempted to fall from grace. The Drakhaoul and its kin were banished to the Realm of Shadows. But there was a gateway to that realm from your world, which powerful and arrogant magi breached using a ruby imbued with the blood of children.”

“Child sacrifice,” Malusha murmured. “The daemon’s craving for innocent blood . . .”

“The Drakhaoul was once an angel?” persisted Kiukiu. “And priests killed children to make it serve them? That’s horrible.”

“It must be sent back the way it came,” Malusha said slowly, as though reasoning out loud, “by opening this gateway, wherever it may be. But not by killing children, surely?”

“And where is this gateway?” asked Kiukiu. “Is it in Azhkendir?”

“How can I be sure, if I tell you, that you will use this information for the good of the living?” There was a darker hint of warning in Serzhei’s voice now. “Or that others will not force it out of you and use it to fulfill their own selfish desires? For that is how it was with the sons of Artamon. You have seen the terrible damage that one Drakhaoul-daemon can wreak; imagine the devastation if more were let loose.”

The drowsy air grew warmer, releasing wafts of scent from the herbs. And the buzzing of the bees among the blue lavender spikes grew louder. The hazy sky filled with the sound of beating wings.

“Oh no,” whispered Kiukiu. “They’ve found us.”

“Only the emperor’s tears,” Serzhei said, “will unlock the gate. But take great care. For others of its daemon-kin may seize their chance to escape and—”

“Enough!” The two guardian warriors from the gate alighted, one on either side of Serzhei. And now others appeared, hovering overhead, golden hair and wings flickering like flames. Alarmed, Kiukiu shrank back toward her grandmother. “You were ordered to leave.”

“Forgive us.” Kiukiu held her hands out imploringly to Serzhei. “We didn’t mean to do anything wrong.”

One guardian took hold of Kiukiu, the other, Malusha. At their touch, Kiukiu felt her scars begin to burn. “Why can’t you help us?” she cried to them, filled with frustration that so few of their questions had been answered.

“Only one pure of heart may call upon the Heavenly Warriors to defeat the Drakhaoul.” The guardian warrior’s voice was stern.

“And you have defied us once already,” said the other. “You must go now, and never return.”

Kiukiu let out a little cry as she was lifted high into the air and the guardians bore them upward through the gilded sky on fiery wings.

 

Kiukiu opened her eyes.

She was sitting by the fire in her grandmother’s cottage. The gusly lay silent on her lap. The fingers of one hand were deeply scored with the marks of the gusly strings. The other hand clutched protectively at the base of her throat where her scarred skin still burned.

“Marked by the daemon,” she whispered, overcome with shame. “Tainted.”

Beside her, Malusha stirred.

“I’m getting too old for this.” She laid her gusly down. “Put the kettle on the fire, Kiukiu. Let’s have some tea.”

A man rose from the seat on the other side of the fire; Kiukiu jumped. She had forgotten that the Magus was still there, waiting for them.

“Well?” he said. “What did you learn?”

Kiukiu lowered her eyes, too ashamed to say.

“Make the tea, Kiukiu,” ordered Malusha. “I can’t abide talking with a dry throat.”

Kiukiu busied herself at the range, putting in a blend of healing herbs for her fingers and restorative herbs to revive them after their journey in the Ways Beyond. She could sense the Magus’s growing impatience; she knew Malusha would take a malign pleasure in making him wait.

And indeed, not until she had taken several long sips of her favorite herbal tea, sweetened with honey, did Malusha deign to answer his question.

“We’ve heard tales of an ages-old war between the Drakhaoul’s daemon-kin and the Heavenly Guardians,” she said, setting her mug down. “And unless you can find someone as pure of heart as Archimandrite Serzhei to summon them, no Heavenly Guardians are ever going to come to our aid.”

“I’d guessed that much from the manuscript at the monastery,” Linnaius said.

There was something odd about his lack of reaction, Kiukiu thought as she drank her tea, balancing the mug carefully in her sore fingers. Had this just been some kind of test? No matter what it was, she wished that her grandmother would not provoke him with her sly little digs and send him away, his promise to her unfulfilled.

“There was one other thing Serzhei told us,” continued Malusha, almost teasingly. “Just as we were thrown out for our pains . . .”

“And that was?”

“ ‘Only the Emperor’s tears will unlock the gate,’ ” said Kiukiu. “But we never heard where the gate was. They wanted to keep it secret.”

“Ah.” This obviously meant something to the Magus.

“So?” Malusha said, her eyes bright in the firelight. “We risked much for you and your little Tielen princess, Linnaius. The least you could do is to tell us what it means.”

“ ‘The emperor’ most probably means Artamon,” Linnaius said obliquely.

“It doesn’t take a scholar to figure that one out! And what about this ruby? Imbued with the blood of children?” Malusha was no longer teasing, Kiukiu saw; she was in deadly earnest. “I’ll not be party to any practice involving the killing of children, and neither will my Kiukiu.”

“I’ll have to pursue my researches further.” Linnaius began to walk toward the door.

“You seem very keen to be on your way, wind-mage.” Malusha eased herself up out of her chair. “There’s more to this than you’re telling, isn’t there? And what about that visit you promised my Kiukiu? Have you seen the state of her fingers? She’s ruined them—and all on your Emperor’s behalf! Show him.”

Kiukiu reluctantly raised her hand, showing her sore, swollen fingertips.

“You understand, I’m sure, that there are orders to be filled out and signed by the Emperor himself. Gavril Nagarian is a very dangerous man and he is confined in a place of the utmost security. But I will set the process in motion. I will return when I have more news.” He turned on his heel to leave.

“The Emperor’s daughter,” Kiukiu said. “She’s only little. She could be the one pure of heart.”

“An innocent child?” Linnaius stopped as though this had not occurred to him before. Then he nodded and, opening the door, disappeared into the courtyard.