Prisoner of the Iron Tower (10 page)

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!”

CHAPTER
9

“Gavril Nagarian, you are accused of treason against the Empire of New Rossiya.”

After weeks of confinement in a subterranean cell, Gavril’s eyes ached. He squinted into the pale daylight, trying in vain to identify a familiar face among his accusers in the courtroom.

The chief of the three judges leaned back in his chair, staring at him fixedly as the prosecuting lawyer read out the charges again.

“. . . that you brutally murdered Count Feodor Velemir . . . broke your sworn pledge to Eugene of Tielen . . . The prisoner will stand to hear the sentence.”

Weak and faint, Gavril forced himself to concentrate on keeping upright. His wrists and ankles were shackled so that he could do little but shuffle when prodded by his guards to move forward.

“Well?” The judge looked down at him dispassionately. “What do you have to say in your defense?”

His life depended on the outcome of this trial. And yet he knew in his bones that it was all a show. He had been judged guilty long before the trial had begun.

“I acted to defend my people.” His voice sounded so quiet in the vast wood-paneled courtroom. “Eugene of Tielen attacked my kastel. Yes, I fought back—but only under extreme provocation.”

“That’s not the story we have heard these past days.” The judge adjusted his pince-nez spectacles on his nose as he read from his notes. “We have heard from the few surviving witnesses that you ignored his imperial highness’s requests for safe passage through Azhkendir. And when offered reasonable terms of surrender, your answer was to turn your fearsome weapons of destruction on the Tielen army in a vicious attempt to assassinate his imperial highness.”

The facts were true, but so distorted in the Emperor’s favor that they made Gavril appear a duplicitous villain.

The judge raised his head from his papers and gazed out at the crowded courtroom. “Over five hundred Tielen men were killed in that onslaught. Five hundred! Including the Emperor’s oldest friend, General Lars-Gustave Anckstrom, a veteran soldier who risked his life in battle countless times for the good of his countrymen.”

A murmur of outrage went around the courtroom. Gavril closed his eyes, wishing that somehow he might wake and find it all a dream.

“Only by God’s grace was our beloved Emperor spared from annihilation—although the imperial doctors say he will bear the scars of that terrible attack to the end of his days. Gavril Nagarian, it is the opinion of this court that you are guilty on all counts. I have no alternative by the laws of the empire but to sentence you to death by public execution.”

Gavril heard the words as if from a very great distance. He tried to make sense of them.

So Eugene wanted him dead.

“You will be taken from this court to the imperial prison, to await execution—”

“Wait!”

A man had risen to his feet at the back of the courtroom. Tall and broad-shouldered, he strode forward into the shaft of daylight.

“Y-your imperial highness?” The judge bowed his head, evidently confused by this unscheduled interruption.

A whisper gusted about the courtroom like a gathering wind.

It was Eugene. Plainly dressed, unadorned with medals or ribbons, the Emperor must have been sitting, listening to the trial, unnoticed by the rest of the court.

Gavril stared at his enemy, seeing all too clearly in the daylight the damage he had inflicted at the height of his frenzy. Half the Emperor’s face had been scorched by Drakhaon’s Fire, as had the hand he had raised to halt the trial. The wounds still looked raw and painful. Gavril swallowed hard, sensing that Eugene must hate him as much for ruining his face as for defeating him in battle.

“History shows us that too many rulers have stained their reigns with the blood of their enemies.” Grey eyes, chill as a winter sky, scanned the silent courtroom. “What will it achieve if I take this young Clan Lord’s life? Too much blood has been shed already in this conflict. Let the court record that I revoke the death sentence. Let it be known that Eugene of Tielen has begun his reign as Emperor with an act of mercy, of forgiveness.”

One by one, the people in the crowded courtroom rose to their feet, applauding the Emperor’s speech.

Gavril blinked.

“We have heard the evidence from a number of medical doctors. We have heard of the prisoner’s episodes of madness in his cell, causing his jailers to restrain him to avoid injury to himself.”

The judge nodded slowly.

“We conclude, therefore, that Gavril Nagarian is afflicted with a grave and incurable disorder of the mind. A danger to himself—and to others. We recommend that he be taken to an asylum, where he may be cared for in complete security until the end of his days.”

To the end of his days? Locked away to rot in a lunatic asylum? What mercy was there in such a sentence? Till that moment, Gavril had managed to keep control of himself. But now he lunged toward Eugene, screaming aloud his fury. “I’m
not
mad!”

His guards grabbed hold of him by the shackles, forcing him to his knees. But still he shouted out till his throat burned, twisting and struggling to escape their restraining hands.

“Don’t do this to me, Eugene! I’d rather die. Kill me, but don’t lock me away!”

One of the guards struck him, bringing him crashing down onto the polished boards of the courtroom floor. Rough hands restrained him, forcing him to stay down.

“Look at the wretched fellow,” he heard Eugene say to one of his aides as they walked away. “Obviously quite insane. Let’s trust our physicians will be able to calm his frenzy. . . .”

Footsteps. Coming nearer.

Gavril lay curled in on himself, numb with dread and despair. What new torment had his captors devised to enliven his last hours before they removed him to the lunatic asylum?

His body was marked with fresh bruises where they had manhandled him out of the courtroom. His wrists and ankles were rubbed raw where the shackles had chafed away the skin. Yet the physical discomfort was nothing to his mental agony.

Was
he insane?

It was true that there were whole days he could not recall since they arrested him weeks ago in Azhkendir, gaping blanks in his memory. But then, he had traveled blindfolded and shackled for much of the journey, first in a barred coach and then by sea, in the lightless bowels of a Tielen warship, so that he had lost all track of time.

The only certainty was that he was no longer a threat to Eugene. He had fought the Drakhaoul that possessed him, and he had won. But in ridding himself of the Drakhaoul, he had betrayed his people. They had looked to him to defend them—and he had destroyed the only means of defeating Eugene’s alchymical weapons.

A key turned in the lock and the heavy door creaked open. Lanternlight illumined the cell, so bright that Gavril flung his hands over his eyes. Voices conferred in a language he gradually came to recognize as Tielen. They seemed to be arguing. One, strong and commanding, soon overruled the others.

The door clanged shut. Gavril slowly opened his eyes, peering warily through his fingers.

A tall man, lantern in hand, stood gazing down at him. The bright glow of the lanternlight revealed the red, puckered scars marring his face.

“Eugene?” Gavril whispered, lowering his hands.

“At least you’re lucid enough to recognize me.” Eugene spoke in the common tongue, with just the slightest trace of a Tielen accent. “After your outburst today, I feared you were beyond help.”

“So you came to see the dangerous lunatic—alone.”

Eugene held the lantern up close to Gavril’s face. Gavril shied away, eyes stung by the brightness of the light.

“Linnaius was right,” Eugene said, lowering the lantern. “You have rid yourself of your powers. Or—more accurately—you have rid yourself of the creature that made you so powerful.”

“What does it matter to you? You’re Emperor now, and I’m your prisoner.”

“You could have taken the whole continent for yourself. You could have seared me and all my armies to ash. You had the power to do it, Gavril Nagarian.
You
could have been emperor. And you threw that power away. I want to know why.”

“It was destroying me!”

“Surely there was some way you could have come to control the creature?” Eugene leaned closer. “Impose your will on it? Subdue it?”

“You’re implying that I was not strong enough to master it?” Gavril said slowly. “And that another, less weak-willed, could have forced it to obey him?” He began to shake his head. “You have no idea what you are saying. It winds itself into your will, your consciousness, until you no longer know who is in control!”

“Tell me where it has gone, and I will see your sentence is greatly reduced. A year in confinement, little more.”

“Why?” Gavril stared up at the Emperor. “Why is it so important for you to know? Don’t you understand what I’m saying? Sooner or later, it destroys you. It refashions its host, body and mind, to resemble the being it once was.”

“I see little evidence of that refashioning in you now.” Eugene held the lantern close to Gavril’s face, gazing searchingly into his eyes.

“There are still traces.” Gavril held up his shackled hands. “Look at my nails. See those streaks of blue? And my hair—though your doctors have shorn most of it away”—he ran one hand ruefully over the short prison crop they had given him after clipping his cobalt-streaked locks—”for reasons of hygiene. But the signs are fading fast.”

In a distant part of his mind he found himself wondering why he was talking to Eugene, revealing what little was left of his mystery. Had he said too much? Or had he said just enough to condemn himself to the asylum for life?

“You still have not answered my question.” Eugene’s eyes probed his, grey steel now, hard and determined. “Where did the creature go? I have evidence it passed east over Swanholm. But after that, its trail went cold.”

“I severed the link between us. Don’t you understand? I don’t know where it went.” Gavril forced himself to control the desperation in his voice. “It told me it would die without a Nagarian host to sustain it. For all I know, it’s already dead.”

Eugene stepped back from him.

“You fool,” he said, his voice quiet, expressionless.

Suddenly Gavril’s confused mind made a connection. He understood why Eugene had come in secret to interrogate him.

“So
you
want to become Drakhaoul,” he said, bitterness darkening his voice. “You have the whole continent of New Rossiya in your power; you have Astasia Orlova as your bride, and it’s still not enough for you! Be thankful that the creature is dead. Be thankful that you don’t have to endure the unnatural lusts and desires the creature imposes on its host—”

“I,” Eugene said coldly, “have had greater men than you silenced for such insolence. I have stripped their families of everything—even their name.”

Gavril felt a sudden fear chill his heart. For one moment he had forgotten that this man was Emperor and could destroy the people he loved with a single word. He had endangered his mother, his household, his bodyguard . . . and his faithful Kiukiu. They might be far away from this dismal prison, but none would escape the Emperor’s wrath.

He swallowed. “Forgive me, your highness. I forgot myself.”

“Well. It’s gone . . . and there’s an end to it.”

But Gavril heard no hint of resignation in Eugene’s voice. He did not doubt that Eugene, no matter what he had said to him, would send his agents to all corners of his empire and beyond to trace the Drakhaoul.

Nothing would be left to chance.

Somewhere nearby water dripped, a monotonous, repetitive sound, regular as the ticking of an ancient clock. For some time now, Gavril had felt as if there were a great weight pressing on his chest, a jacket of iron slowly tightening, stifling his breathing.

The weight, he had begun to realize, was the burden of his own fear—fear for the future and the life he would not be allowed to live. Instead, an eternity of imprisonment stretched ahead, a living death. Slowly he closed his eyes . . . and found he was flying.

In the weeks of confinement he had almost forgotten what it was like to fly. Chill, pure air streamed past him, through him—cleansing all the petty concerns of the world far below.

A dark ocean, cold and black as ink, stretched beneath him now. He hurtled aimlessly onward, borne on a tumultuous stormwind of despair.

And now he felt a rawness at the core of his being, as if he had been wrenched in two and lost a vital part of himself. And this soul-wound was bleeding his life away.

Somewhere far off, a distant voice howled its grief aloud.

“I am weary of this world.”

And something awoke within his brain. Livid spatters of light exploded across his vision. A horrible twisting, shuddering feeling gripped his whole body. He fell to the floor, limbs contorting.

“I want to go back to my own kind.”

“H-help—”

Little slivers of light pulsed through his mind, and with each new pulse his body convulsed again.

“Prisoner’s fitting!”