CHAPTER 8
“Stop moping around, Kiukiu, and fetch me some beeswax.”
Kiukiu started. Where did her grandmother keep the beeswax? In the earthernware jar next to the honeypot? Or alongside the wood varnish in the row of tarnished little glass bottles on the high shelf? As she stood staring up at the rows of jars and pots on the shelf she could think of only one thing.
Gavril Nagarian.
He had promised he would come for her as soon as the work on the Kalika Tower was complete.
“Do you want me to mend this gusly for you in this life or the next?”
Malusha was regaining her strength by the day, and as her strength increased, her tongue grew more tart. Kiukiu went up on tiptoe to reach a little black pot on the end of the shelf. Uncorking it, she smelled the pungent richness of the deep ochre beeswax gathered from her grandmother’s hives.
“Here it is.” She brought the pot to Malusha, who was bending over the wooden frame of the damaged instrument, fiddling with pliers and wisps of wire.
“If you want to call yourself a proper Guslyar, you’ll have to learn to do all this for yourself. I won’t be here forever and I want some peace and quiet in the Ways Beyond. I can’t have you popping up whenever you’ve broken a peg or snapped a string. . . .”
Kiukiu slipped back into the shadows. It was best to let Grandma mutter and complain to herself while she carried out the repairs.
The heat from the fire was becoming stifling in the little cottage. She felt muzzy-headed. She needed fresh air.
She crossed the courtyard, stepping over the hens as they skittered around on the frozen earth. As she passed underneath the archway that led out onto the moorlands, she murmured the secret words Malusha had finally taught her. Mists parted in a swirl . . . then formed again behind her, concealing the cottage from view.
Malusha had insisted on maintaining the charmed skein of invisibility she spun around the cottage to hide it from passersby—not that there were any, Kiukiu reasoned, so close to the desolation of the Arkhel Waste.
Kiukiu stood for a while, dazzled by the paleness of the daylight. The moors were still white with snow, and the horned peak of Arkhel’s Fang was half-hidden by a wreath of woolly snowclouds. But the air tasted sweeter and the wind that blew from the mountains had lost its keen bite. And here and there, spines of gorse and lingonberry protruded from the snow, darkly green. High overhead, a skein of grey-winged geese flew, returning to their summer nesting grounds.
Winter was slowly dying.
How long had it been since Gavril had kissed her good-bye? His absence had cast her life into shadow. The first spring light seemed muted; the slight hint of warmth in the air brought her no pleasure.
Kiukiu set out, her worn leather boots squishing through the slushy snow, tramping away from the cottage.
“I will come for you. . . .”
Kiukiu frowned up at the cloudy sky. How long did it take to finish work on the Kalika Tower? She had thought it would be a matter of days. Now the days had become weeks.
But he had promised. He had promised he’d come back for her. Unless . . .
Another skein of grey geese skimmed past overhead, startling Kiukiu with their forlorn cries.
“Why can’t I fly like you?” she cried. “Why can’t I fly straight to Kastel Drakhaon and find out for myself what’s happening?”
At this rate of thaw, travel by sleigh would be impossible in a few days. And then the journey would turn into a long, dreary trudge across the moors, skirting the treacherous marshlands and quagmires that still lay icebound.
If only I didn’t have this sick, sore feeling around my heart . . .
She turned and marched back into the cottage. Her grandmother glanced up at her from the coil of wire she was twisting to make a new string.
“I’m going back to Kastel Drakhaon,” Kiukiu announced, “and nothing you say can stop me.”
Something was wrong at the kastel. Very wrong.
Kiukiu pulled on the reins, standing up in the sleigh as Harim slowed to a halt.
The main road leading to the kastel was trampled to the bare earth as though many horses and heavy carts had passed over it. No fresh snow had fallen for several days now. She would have to dismount and lead Harim.
“What’s happened here, Harim?” she whispered.
Looking down from the high road among the trees, she saw flags fluttering from the kastel towers, flags of grey and blue.
The colors of Tielen.
And now she noticed men at work on the scarred earth of the escarpment where Lord Gavril had attacked the besieging army. She let the reins drop and hurried to the edge of the road, peering down through the low-hanging branches of fir and pine.
What were the Tielens doing? Building new fortifications? Great mounds of raw earth had been piled up. They seemed to be tunneling deep into the ground; she could see shafts lined with planks of wood, pulleys from which swung huge buckets filled with earth. Sentries armed with carbines patrolled the perimeter.
Kiukiu felt a cold, sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.
The Tielens had taken the kastel. Where was Lord Gavril?
“Hey, you up there!” A sentry had spotted her. He pointed his carbine directly at her. “Come down! Identify yourself.”
“P-please don’t shoot. I’m coming, I’m coming . . .”
The Tielen soldiers guarding the gate took charge of Harim and brought Kiukiu before their commanding officer, Captain Lindgren.
The captain had installed himself in the Great Hall. All the Nagarian portraits had been taken down. Where Lord Volkh had once stared sternly down from the dais, a new picture in an ornate gilded frame had been hung, garlanded with Tielen colors. Kiukiu kept gazing at it, recognizing the tall, imposing figure as Eugene of Tielen. A flash of memory jolted her back to the barren, burned battlefield—and her first sight of Eugene, lying horribly burned outside the kastel . . . though this portrait depicted him clean-skinned and unscarred, staring proudly out as though scanning the world for new countries to conquer.
Beneath his royal master’s portrait sat Captain Lindgren, engrossed in reading a sheaf of dispatches. He glanced up at Kiukiu and spoke in Tielen to the soldiers who had brought her in. Then he set the dispatches down.
“Who are you and what is your business here?” he said in the common tongue. He did not speak brusquely, yet Kiukiu felt her knees trembling.
“My name—Kiukirilya. I-I work here.” She saw him reach for a brown-bound ledger, open it, and scan a list of names.
“Your name is not on this list. Can you explain why?”
“I’ve been away. Caring for my grandmother.”
He shut the ledger with a snap and looked up at her, unsmiling.
“Can anyone here vouch for you?”
Her mind was in a turmoil. All she could think was: “What’s happened to Lord Gavril? Where is he?”
“Anyone in the kastel?”
“My aunt. Sosia.”
“The housekeeper?” He clicked his fingers to the soldiers. “Bring her here.”
One of them left the Hall and returned with Sosia—a subdued Sosia, who followed him without a word of protest.
“Auntie?” Kiukiu cried, relieved to see her alive.
Sosia’s eyes widened on seeing her. She shook her head as if in disbelief.
“Whyever did you come back, Kiukiu? You should have stayed with Malusha!” she cried in Azhkendi.
“I didn’t know. I didn’t know—”
“Please identify this young woman for me,” interrupted Captain Lindgren.
“This,” Sosia said, her manner suddenly meek and cowed, “is my niece, Kiukiu.”
“Please confirm her role in the kastel household.”
“Maidservant.”
“Why was I not given her name before?”
“She was given leave to go care for her grandmother. I didn’t expect her back so soon.”
“If she is to stay, she must earn her keep,” the captain said. “We have too many mouths to feed here as it is. I will not tolerate idlers. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Captain,” Sosia said. “She can take up her old duties in the kitchens again.”
“Young woman, please inscribe your name on the household role here.”
“M-my name?” Kiukiu shot Sosia an agonized glance.
“Do your best,” Sosia mouthed at her.
With reluctant fingers, Kiukiu took up the pen and dipped it in the inkwell. She had had so little opportunity to practice writing—let alone sign her name. When she laid the pen down again, the untidy, blotched result marring the captain’s neatly inscribed list made her glance away, her face red with shame.
He took back the ledger and she saw him shake his head as he looked at her efforts.
“In Tielen, all children must attend school until they are twelve; obviously this doesn’t happen in Azhkendir.” But there was no censure in his words. “Well . . . all that will change now.”
Was the interview at an end? Kiukiu shot another glance at Sosia.
“So my niece is free to go?” Sosia ventured. “Back to her tasks in the kitchen, that is?”
Captain Lindgren looked up at Kiukiu again. His expression was severe. “You must understand that no one leaves or enters the kastel without my permission. Written permission. Anyone caught breaking this rule will be severely punished. Is that clear?”
Kiukiu nodded.
“Now, you may both resume your duties.”
Sosia took hold of Kiukiu by the wrist and hurried her outside.
“What’s happened?” Kiukiu burst out.
“Ssh! Not here.” Sosia pushed her toward the servants’ quarters. Only when they were in Sosia’s little room, with the door shut tight, did Sosia let go of Kiukiu’s wrist. She had clutched her so tightly, her fingers had left red marks.
“Where is he?” Kiukiu demanded. “Where is Lord Gavril?”
“Oh, Kiukiu, such troubles here—” Sosia began to speak and burst into tears, wiping her eyes with a corner of her apron.
Kiukiu’s imagination overflowed with terrible possibilities. “Is he dead? Tell me, Auntie!”
“Lord Gavril was getting ready to take his mother to the port. And then—they came.”
“The Tielens?”
“They arrested him. They took him away, Kiukiu.”
“Where?”
“To Muscobar, the Tielen commander said.”
“Why didn’t the druzhina defend him?”
“Lord Gavril forbade it. There were too many in the Tielen army. He gave himself up to stop them attacking the kastel.”
Kiukiu just stood there, stricken.
“I must go to him,” she said at last.
“You heard what the captain said. No one leaves without his permission. We’re prisoners here, Kiukiu. Only Lady Elysia stands a chance—and she’s been to see the captain every day since he arrived, begging for an exit permit.”
“I know secret ways across the moorlands—”
“It’s not just getting out, silly girl,” Sosia said sharply. “It’s getting in to Muscobar. These Tielens are sticklers for papers: orders, permits, everything has to be in writing.”
“But I can’t just stay here doing nothing when he’s all alone in prison!”
“Think straight for once in your life, Kiukiu. Muscobar is far away. You have no money. You have no influence. You’re a kitchen maid. A nobody.”
Kiukiu scowled at her.
“And don’t pull that sour face at me! If you want to stay here, you’ll have to earn your board and lodging, same as the rest of us.”
“Sosia! Come see what they’ve found in Lilias’s rooms.” Kiukiu recognized the shrill voice outside as Ilsi’s and she felt a shiver of repulsion. Ilsi, the highest ranking of the maids in the kastel, had made her life belowstairs a constant misery.
“What now?” Sosia asked, raising her eyes heavenward.
“Come quick!”
Sosia opened the door and hurried out; Kiukiu trailed reluctantly after her, dreading the inevitable reunion with the rest of the kastel staff.
I don’t belong here anymore. I belong with Lord Gavril.
Kiukiu hovered in the doorway, watching while the kastel servants crowded close to Ilsi.
“The men were digging through the rubble in Lilias’s apartments,” Ilsi gabbled, “and they dragged this out from under one of the fallen beams.”
“Are her jewels in there?” Ninusha asked, her voice soft with desire. “She had such gorgeous jewelry. . . .”
One of the Tielen soldiers came up behind Kiukiu and pushed her aside. “I am to supervise the opening of this trunk,” he announced. “Captain’s orders. Any weapons found inside are to be confiscated.”
The servants drew back, muttering to one another.
“He’ll confiscate anything of value, you mark my words,” whispered Ninusha.
Kiukiu edged a little closer, curious in spite of herself.
Dented and filthy with masonry dust, the trunk did not look particularly promising. The Tielen soldier unsheathed a knife and slid its thick blade between the lid and base, grunting with the effort. Suddenly, with a click, the lock broke and the lid sprang open, powdering the onlookers with a fine shower of dust.
“Ohhh,” said Ninusha greedily. “Clothes . . .”
“Take them out,” the Tielen ordered Sosia.
“All these dresses . . .” Sosia pulled out one after another from the trunk, until the flagstone floor looked like a waterfall of jewel-bright silks and taffetas. “One for each day of the month.”
“More like every day of the year,” murmured Ninusha, her dark-lashed eyes wide with longing. “How could she bear to leave them behind?”
“Serves her right,” said Ilsi with a sniff, “for stealing another girl’s fiancé.”
“You were never engaged to Michailo!” cried Ninusha.
“We had a secret understanding.”
“An understanding? Is that what it’s called nowadays?”
Kiukiu knelt beside her aunt in the billowing folds of Lilias Arbelian’s wardrobe, reaching out to touch the shining folds of silk. So soft, so luxurious compared with the rough linen of her own patched skirt . . .
“What should we do with them?” she asked wonderingly.
“Burn them,” said Sosia. “Burn anything to do with that treacherous woman. If it weren’t for her, our Kostya would still be alive. They’re bad luck.”
Ninusha let out a shriek of dismay. “Burn these? But they’re—they’re far too beautiful to burn.”
“We lost our belongings in the bombardment, didn’t we, Ninusha?” added Ilsi cunningly. “We’ve only got what we’re wearing now. Right, Sosia?”
“If you think these are suitable for doing the housework in, then think again,” said Sosia tartly. “These are lady’s clothes. Besides, they’d have to be let out to fit you, Ninusha.”
Ilsi gave a malicious little laugh as Ninusha colored crimson at Sosia’s gibe. Kiukiu was glad that, for once, she was not the butt of Ilsi’s spiteful humor.
“What’s all the excitement about?” Lady Elysia appeared in the doorway. At once Ilsi and Ninusha dropped respectful curtsies, heads lowered. “Are you thinking of opening a dressmaker’s, Sosia?”
“The men dug this trunk out of the ruins of the West Wing, my lady. They belonged to—” Sosia’s words dried up, as if unwilling to pronounce Lilias Arbelian’s name aloud in Lady Elysia’s presence.
“To my late husband’s mistress?” Lady Elysia said. The serving girls gawped at one another to hear her speak of Lilias in such blunt terms. But Lady Elysia seemed unconcerned, picking up a gown of milky jade taffeta from the pile and examining it. “She had good taste—and a skillful dressmaker.” If she was distressed by the mention of Lilias’s name, she did not show it.
“We were—unsure of what to do with them, my lady,” said Sosia.
Kiukiu saw Ninusha give Ilsi a nudge in the ribs.
“We’re all short of clothes, my lady,” Ilsi said.
“Well, then, help yourselves!” Lady Elysia said gaily. “I’m going to choose something. This one in jade green, I think. All my clothes are still in Swanholm.” And then she noticed Kiukiu. The brave merriment in her face and voice faltered a moment as she held out her hands to her. “Kiukiu, they didn’t tell me you had returned. We must talk.”
Kiukiu heard the whispering begin as she went over to Lady Elysia’s side.
“When did she appear?” hissed Ilsi. “And where’s she been?”
“Choose yourself a dress too, my dear,” Lady Elysia said, pressing Kiukiu’s hand warmly.
“Let the others choose first,” Kiukiu said, eyes lowered.
“Blue is your color,” Lady Elysia said, ignoring her. She knelt and pulled out a silk dress the rich blue of summer cornflowers. “This will suit you very well.” She held it up against Kiukiu, who felt herself blushing at all the attention.
“It’s lovely,” she said softly, stroking the silk against her cheek. The other servants plunged greedily into the pile of dresses. Ilsi and Ninusha were already bickering over a dress of mulberry silk, tugging it between them. Even old Marfa, who looked after the kastel poultry, had grabbed a dress of heliotrope bombazine.
“Come,” Lady Elysia said to Kiukiu. “Let’s leave them to it.”
Lady Elysia opened the door to the Drakhaon’s chamber and beckoned Kiukiu inside.
Kiukiu felt her heart falter a little as she entered the familiar room. Lady Elysia laid the dresses on the four-poster bed. The rich tapestries still hung on the walls—as did the portrait of Lord Gavril as a boy that she used to dust so tenderly, hoping that one day . . .
“Sit down, Kiukiu. Would you like some tea?” Lady Elysia lifted a little kettle from the fire and poured steaming water into a ceramic pot, releasing the gentle fragrance of green Khitari tea.
“I-I should serve you, my lady—” Kiukiu stammered, embarrassed.
“You’re my guest,” Lady Elysia said, smiling. “Besides, you’ve traveled a long way today, if I’m not mistaken. You must be tired.”
“I came along the River Karzh; it’s still frozen over.” Kiukiu took the bowl of tea and cradled it in her fingers. “It would have taken at least two days by the moorland road.”
Elysia took up her tea and sat down opposite her on the other side of the fire.
Kiukiu sipped her tea and felt the ache that had stiffened her neck and shoulders soothed slowly away. She had not realized until then how tense she was. “Lady Elysia,” she said, looking at her through the gauzy steam rising from the tea, “where are all our men?”
“The Tielens took away their weapons,” said Lady Elysia. A sigh escaped her lips. “Then they put them in chains. Captain Lindgren has set them to digging mineshafts. It seems he believes the estate lands contain valuable mineral deposits.”
“They’re making them work—in chains?” Kiukiu set her empty tea bowl down. The thought of the proud druzhina being forced to dig tunnels appalled her.
“If Emperor Eugene believes I’m going to sit here and do nothing to help Gavril and his men, he’s very much mistaken.” The sadness had faded from Elysia’s expression, which was now one of stern resolve. “I’m taking the sleigh and going to Azhgorod tomorrow, Kiukiu, to petition the governor. Captain Lindgren has agreed to write me a safe-conduct letter and introduction to Lord Stoyan.”
“Can I come too?” burst out Kiukiu. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized how foolish they sounded. “No. Of course not. Why would Lord Stoyan pay any attention to me?”
“I fear,” Elysia said distantly, staring into the flames, “that he won’t pay attention to any of us. The matter is out of his hands.”
Kiukiu slipped away when no one was looking with a bowl of scraps and leftovers gleaned from the Tielens’ dinner. Months ago she had crept out of the kitchens, night after night, to feed Snowcloud, the young snow owl she and Lord Gavril had rescued. But now the scraps were intended for a different purpose.
First she slid into the stables, where she found Harim contentedly munching from a nosebag. “Time for you to go home,” she whispered in his hairy ear. Checking to see no one was about, she led him out into the courtyard.
“Where’re you taking that pony?” demanded someone from the shadows behind her.
“Go on.” She patted Harim’s sturdy rump hard and sent him trotting off into the dusk. “Go home to Grandma!”
“Kiukiu?”
She turned to see Ivar, the stableboy, watching her, arms folded, chewing on a haystalk.
“I’m sending him home to Grandma. The Tielens have no need of him.”
“They’re using ponies down in the mine.”
“Well they’re not using my Harim.”
He shrugged. “Don’t worry. I saw nothing.” He went back into the stables, calling teasingly back over his shoulder, “But don’t forget—you owe me a favor now, Kiukiu.”
Kiukiu blushed. So he wants me to kiss him, she thought. And his voice hasn’t even broken properly yet!
Now that Ivar had gone, she gathered up the bowl of scraps and set out toward the escarpment where she had seen the diggings.
She managed to slip past two sentries without being noticed and made her way through the fast-gathering dark toward the mine-workings where the Tielens were lighting torches.
Surely they can’t still be working now that it’s night? Then she remembered that it was always dark underground.
As she came nearer, she saw a group of Azhkendi men lying down around the dying embers of a fire. Were they sleeping? She thought she recognized the straw-fair hair of the nearest prisoner. Crouching down, she threw a pebble at his back, whispering his name. “Semyon! Semyon, it’s me.”
He rolled over and she heard the clinking of chains.
“What is it?” he asked. His eyes looked dull and glazed and he moved sluggishly, as though only half-awake.
“Food,” she hissed, pushing the bowl toward him. “You look half-starved.”
“Food?” he repeated dazedly. And then he grabbed the bowl and started to cram the scraps into his mouth, chewing ravenously. His blanket dropped away and she saw with horror how thin he was, all skin and bones.
“What’s that noise?” It was one of the Tielens, who had spotted the movement. Kiukiu shrank back into the shadows, crawling out of sight.
By the torchlight, she saw him take the bowl from Semyon and hit him, hard.
“Hungry, are you?” The Tielen turned the bowl over so that all the remaining scraps fell out onto the earth. “Let’s test how hungry you really are.” Laughing, he ground them into the earth with the heel of his boot.
Kiukiu began to edge away, terrified lest she be caught. And as she retreated, she saw, through tear-hazed eyes, Semyon desperately scrabbling for the few scraps the Tielen had trodden on.
Azhgorod was the ancient walled capital of Azhkendir. Round watchtowers stood at every gate to protect the wooden houses crowded together beneath the black spires of the Cathedral of Saint Sergius.
In more southern climes, the last snows had melted and spring had come. In Smarna, the white lilacs would be in bloom in the gardens of the Villa Andara. But here in Azhkendir, the last throes of winter still gripped the country in a gauntlet of ice.
Elysia Andar shivered as her sleigh skimmed closer to the city—though whether from the chill of winter’s last snows or from the powerful memories that came surging back to her, she could not be sure.
She had first come to Azhgorod in a troika jingling with sweet-toned silver bells, a young bride nestled close to her husband beneath soft white furs, unaware of the waiting shadows that lay ahead.
And now here she was, a quarter of a century later, her estranged husband assassinated, returning to beg permission to visit her imprisoned son.
Then, the black dragon standard of the House of Nagarian had hung from every watchtower and spire. Clansmen of the Drakhaon’s druzhina rode as escort beside them. The people of Azhgorod clustered together, straining for a closer glimpse of their young Lord Drakhaon and his bride.
Now the blue and grey pennants of Tielen fluttered from the watchtowers, emblem of the empire of New Rossiya that had swallowed up Azhkendir and the other surrounding countries in its gaping maw.
The sleigh reached the main road and began to bump over rutted mud and churned snow. Elysia had to grab hold of the rail to hold herself steady.
Her sleigh-driver turned around.
“Looks like they’re checking everyone in and out, Drakhys.” Ivar had gone pale beneath his freckles. She had chosen Ivar, the oldest stableboy at the kastel, as her driver. All Nagarian men of fighting age had been put to work in Captain Lindgren’s mine, even the detsky—the keep boys—none of whom were much above fifteen summers in age.
“Don’t call me Drakhys, Ivar,” she said. “They’d arrest us for that alone.”
“Suppose they suspect—”
“Our papers are in order. They have no reason to refuse us entry. Just relax.” Even though she forced herself to speak calmly to Ivar, her stomach was churning, dreading the encounter to come, yet fearing just as much being turned away at the gates.
They were close enough now to see soldiers in the uniforms of the army of Tielen manning the gate. Others patrolled the walls, carbines on their shoulders.
“Madame Elysia Andar.” The officer glanced at her as he scanned the letter Captain Lindgren had written. His face was expressionless, giving nothing away. She was glad she had insisted the captain use her professional name. “I see you come from Smarna. A long way to travel in winter, madame.”
“You will also see that I am a portrait painter,” she answered pleasantly. “I go where my work takes me.”
“And you seek an audience with his excellency, the governor.” He frowned at the papers as though questioning their authenticity, then handed them back. “You may proceed.”
Ivar’s freckled face had turned bright red with relief when he clambered back into the driver’s seat. She nodded but said nothing, not trusting herself to speak yet.
The narrow streets of the city were dark and gloomy, overhung with carved wooden balconies and metal shop signs. The street was hard with rutted ice. Ahead the way was blocked by two larger sleighs. And, from the shouts and cursing, Elysia guessed the coachmen had come to blows.
“Ivar, you’ll have to find somewhere to leave the sleigh while I go on ahead on foot.”
He glanced at her doubtfully. “A lady alone? In this big city?”
She laughed. His concern for her safety was touching. Though she suspected he was equally anxious about how he was going to maneuver the sleigh without accident.
“I’m used to big cities, Ivar. I spent many weeks in Mirom, remember? You go and find a place to stable the horses, then meet me at the Governor’s Mansion. It’s in the main square, opposite the cathedral.”
She swung her feet out over the side of the sleigh, lifting the jade skirts of Lilias’s dress to avoid the wet slush of ice and mud pooling in the ruts, and set off beneath the low-hanging balconies.
She let her memory guide her, hurrying as best she could over the slippery mush of frozen snow, past a covered market ripe with the earthy stink of onions, winter kale, and turnips, where tradesmen hollered their wares aloud, their breath steaming in the cold air.
The iron-tongued bells of Saint Sergius’s Cathedral dinned out, filling the city with their clamor. Following the sound, she came out of the narrow street into the great square and found herself gazing up at the cathedral, a dark blur against the pallor of the sky.
The town residence of Lord Boris Stoyan, Chief Boyar of the Council of Azhgorod—and recently appointed Governor of Azhkendir by the Emperor Eugene—stood next to the Council House. It was a sturdy, unpretentious mansion, built in the traditional Azhkendi style, with carved wooden shutters and balconies, and a roof pitched at a steep angle to allow the snow to slide off. Only the Tielen sentries guarding the front door, and the blue and grey flag of Tielen hanging over the entrance, distinguished it from any other rich merchant’s house in Azhgorod.
Elysia steeled herself and approached the entrance, papers in hand.
One of the sentries stepped forward to examine her documents.
“His excellency is very busy,” he said in the common tongue, his accent clipped and awkward. “He may not see you today. You’ll have to wait with the other petitioners.”
“But I’ve come a long way to see Lord Stoyan.”
The sentry opened the great door and curtly indicated that she should go in. “Wait in the first room on the left. The door is open.”
“You’ll make sure that Lord Stoyan receives my letter?”
“We have a system here. You must wait your turn like the rest.”
The petitioners, all older men dressed in fur coats and hats, were huddled close to a little wood-burning stove. Elysia nodded to them, but they all looked away as if she were not there.
Where was Ivar? He had only been to Azhgorod once before, he had told her, to the Butter Fair. And then he had been eight years old. But why was she fretting about what had become of Ivar? He was old enough to take care of himself. Perhaps it was easier to worry about the little concerns of the moment than to remember the true reason for her visit.
The door opened and a neatly dressed maidservant came in.
“Madame Andar? Please come with me.”
Elysia glanced up, surprised that she should be called so soon. The other petitioners looked at her resentfully and one or two began to murmur behind their papers.
Ignoring them, she swept out of the room, following the maidservant.
She was shown into a large, painted wood-paneled chamber. A fire of logs crackled in the great stone fireplace, filling the room with the sweet cidery scent of burning apple wood.
“So you are Elysia Andar.” It was a woman’s voice, cool and yet tinged with a familiar accent, which Elysia could not quite place.
Elysia turned, caught off guard, and saw a red-haired woman in the doorway.
“I-I’m sorry, madame, you have me at a disadvantage. Are you Lady Stoyan by any chance?”
The woman came closer. Elysia’s instincts as a portrait-painter noted that she was plainly yet elegantly dressed in a gown of black and violet—the colors of mourning. Her hair was more russet than red, her skin was richly creamy, and her eyes were a languid yet intense green. In spite of the sober colors of her costume, Elysia detected a strong aura of sensuality . . . and something else, less easily defined, that made her feel distinctly uneasy.
“Lady Stoyan?”
The woman smiled, a teasing, knowing smile. “No. I’m not the governor’s wife, madame. Or should I call you Drakhys?”
Elysia felt the heat from the apple-wood fire color her cheeks. Ignoring the sly dig, she pressed on. “I think there’s been some mistake. I came here to see Lord Stoyan and my petition is for his attention only.”
“You want permission from his excellency to go visit your son Gavril in prison. But why should his excellency grant you or Gavril Nagarian any favors?”
“I fail to see what this has to do with you, madame.”
“My name is Lilias Arbelian, and my son is Stavyomir Arkhel. Now do you understand?”
Lilias Arbelian. Her late husband Volkh’s mistress. Elysia stared at the younger woman who stood before her so calmly, evidently enjoying her little moment of triumph. Beside Lilias she felt dowdy, middle-aged, and desperately needy. And then there was the matter of the jade-green dress from Lilias’s own trunk that she was wearing. Surely Lilias had noticed by now?
“Ah. My Khitari jade silk,” Lilias said, staring at the dress. “Jade really doesn’t flatter an older complexion.”
Utterly embarrassed by now, Elysia felt a flush of heat redden her face and neck. She opened her mouth to reply, then thought better of it.
“I see you know who I am.”
“Yes,” Elysia said, recovering a little. “Altan Kazimir has told me a great deal about you.”
To her satisfaction she saw a slight frown darken the limpid green of Lilias’s eyes.
“I don’t know what you hope to achieve from this interview, Madame Arbelian,” she continued, determined to maintain her advantage, “but if you’ve nothing of significance to say to me, then I shall not waste my time—or yours—any longer. Please tell me when Lord Stoyan will grant me an audience.”
“Perhaps I have not made myself clear.” Lilias’s voice had a hard-edged ring to it now, all the earlier sweetness gone. “Since my little son Stavyomir was named heir to Azhkendir by the Emperor himself, the governor and I have grown quite . . . close.”
Quite close. Well, of course, Elysia thought, and she had been a fool not to observe how Lilias’s mourning dress had been subtly altered to enhance and display the milky bloom of her full breasts. A flurry of tart comments filled her mind, but she forced herself to leave them unspoken.
“You may be unaware, Madame Arbelian, that I have good friends at the court in Mirom.”
“Oh really? Well, I have been at the imperial court in Mirom and I find that old allegiances have altered considerably since Eugene became Emperor. First Minister Vassian, for example.”
“Oh?” said Elysia uncertainly.
“Put a bullet through his brains. Such a tragedy for the family. They say he killed himself because he had failed in his duty to protect Muscobar.”
The news of Vassian’s suicide shocked Elysia. She had only met him on a handful of occasions, but she remembered him as a dignified, self-composed man, who, unlike many at court, had shown her courtesy and understanding.
“I’m so sorry,” said Lilias callously. “I hadn’t realized you knew him.”
Another potential ally dead. Elysia tried not to let her disappointment show. “And I am sorry to hear that such a faithful servant of Muscobar is dead,” she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. “But I must remind you, Madame Arbelian, that I came here to see Lord Stoyan. My letter of introduction from Captain Lindgren is addressed to Lord Stoyan himself, not to you.”
“Well now . . . what a shame that I discovered your letter was a forgery—and was obliged to destroy it.” Lilias suddenly drew a paper from her low-cut bodice, moving toward the sizzling fire.
Too late Elysia realized what she was about. She darted forward, hands outstretched to try to wrest her precious letter from Lilias, but the younger woman moved the more swiftly. With a flick of the wrist, she cast Captain Lindgren’s letter into the flames.
Elysia let out a cry and seized the tongs, trying to pull the letter from the fire, but it was too late. The paper had been consumed, crumbling to black ash.
“Shame on you, Madame Andar, for stooping to such a low trick. Did you think you would get away with it?” A little smile played about Lilias’s full lips. “I believe it is a very serious crime to forge the signature of one of the Emperor’s officers. I should report you to the authorities.”
“It was no forgery and you know it.” Elysia stood, still clutching the tongs like a weapon. She was so angry she did not trust herself to say more.
To her surprise, Lilias let out a piercing scream.
“Help me, help me!”
The doors burst open and two of the Tielen guard hurried in.
“She attacked me!” Lilias, her face twisted in anguish, pointed a trembling finger at Elysia. “With the fire tongs!”
“Drop the tongs, madame.”
Elysia let the fire tongs slip from her grasp as the guards advanced. Lilias had begun to sob into a delicate lace handkerchief.
“Bravo, Lilias Arbelian,” Elysia said, forcing as much cold contempt into her voice as she dared. “I had not realized you were such a talented actress.”
“Come, madame.” One of the guards gripped her by the arms and started to propel her toward the doorway.
“What shall we do with her?” the other asked. “Take her to the city jail?”
“Oh no, I am not a vindictive woman,” cried Lilias. “Madame Andar was distraught to hear news about her son. I—as a mother—can understand how concern for one’s child can make a rational woman behave irrationally. Escort her from the mansion, please—and ensure she is not readmitted.”
But as the guards hustled Elysia out, Lilias said in a low voice in Azhkendi, “Did you think I would help you and your darling son? Understand that I will do everything in my power to ensure Gavril never returns to Azhkendir!”