Prisoner of the Iron Tower (11 page)

Men’s voices began to shout close by. The cell door was flung open. Vaguely, through the electrical storm ravaging his brain, he saw boots, heard commands.

“Get restraints! Hurry!”

“He could bite his tongue off. Put this stick in his mouth.”

Hands grabbed hold of him, clamping hold of his head, wrenching his jaws open, forcing in a wooden rule till he began to gag.

“Hold his arms.”

“No, don’t touch him yet. Not till he’s calmed down—”

There’s something in my head!
He tried to tell them what was wrong, but the wooden rule pressed down on his tongue and only inarticulate, gargling sounds came out.

And just as suddenly as it had burst into life, the kernel of brightness in his mind died down. He went limp, unresisting.

“The fit’s passing. Now’s the moment, quick—”

The guards pinioned his arms behind his back, trussing him so that he could not move.

“Send for a strong sedative. We can’t have him throwing a fit like this in the carriage.”

One of the men went hurrying away. Another bent down and—none too gently—prised the wooden rule from Gavril’s mouth.

“Not mad—” Gavril said in a gasp. “Tell the Emperor—it’s still alive. I can hear it—in my head.”

He saw the soldiers glance at one another.

“Humor him,” whispered one.

“Of course we’ll tell the Emperor.”

“He’ll—reward you—”

“Here’s the sedative.” One of the guards knelt beside Gavril. “Now then, Nagarian, this’ll calm you down.”

“No, no drugs!” Gavril twisted his head away. He must stay conscious. Once they sedated him, he would be unable to tell Eugene what he had experienced—and his last hope of reprieve would be gone. “I’m perfectly sane—”

“Get his mouth open. Hurry.”

They thrust the rule back between his gritted teeth. The pain was almost unbearable, but still he fought them. One fetched a funnel and forced it into his mouth, pouring the sedative in till it trickled, cold and bitter as poison, down the back of his throat. Coughing, he tried to spit it out.

“This one’s a fighter. Hold him down. It’ll start to work soon.”

They tugged out the funnel from between Gavril’s clenched teeth.

“I’m not mad!”
he cried with all the force of his lungs. “I’m—
not—
”

Already his tongue felt swollen, sluggish. The words sounded slurred. And the brightness of the lights was dimming as if a fine veil of mist were drifting through the cell. His limbs felt heavy, unwieldy. The faces of his guards seemed to be slowly floating away from him, their staring eyes like lanterns glimpsed through mist.

“See? I told you. Gave him enough to fell a horse. He’ll be out of it for hours. By that time he’ll be on his way to the asylum. . . .”

“Don’t lock me away. Please don’t lock me away. . . .” The words formed in his dulling brain like soap bubbles—and popped before he could speak them.

He was falling back now, falling slowly back into soft clouds.

Not mad . . .

Arnskammar Asylum for the Insane was armored to withstand the storm winds that frequently pounded the remote cliffs on which it stood. The local inhabitants nicknamed it the Iron Tower, for the stone from which it was built was veined with ore. When wet with rain or tidespray, its massive walls glistened with the dour, brown sheen of newly forged iron. It had originally been a fortress, one of two built by the Tielen princes to defend Arnskammar Point, the most southern promontory of Tielen.

In these more stable and enlightened times, the Tielen council had converted one of the fortresses into a secure hospital in which to house those distressing cases whose insanity could not be cured by conventional treatment. Also, wealthy and titled families had been known to pay for the confinement of difficult relatives whose scandalous behavior had proved an embarrassment. The government was rumored to house dangerous prisoners of state there too, those whose anarchic ideas would make them a danger to society.

It was to Arnskammar Asylum that the Emperor Eugene had sent a prisoner in a locked, barred carriage. The patient’s identity was to be kept secret; he was referred to only as Number Twenty-One. All that was known about him was that he was not a Tielen by birth and that he had—in his madness—committed a terrible crime against the New Rossiyan Empire.

“The late Count Velemir once hinted to me, Eupraxia,” said Eugene as he and Astasia’s governess stood gazing at the betrothal portrait, “that the relationship between my wife and Gavril Nagarian was considerably more than that of patron and artist. . . .”

Eupraxia’s eyes widened; he saw a deep flush spread across her face and throat.

“There was never any evidence of impropriety, your imperial highness,” she said staunchly.

“I am not seeking to smear my wife’s reputation. My sources, however, tell me that Gavril Nagarian was once thrown out of a court reception for attempting to kiss Astasia.”

Little pearls of perspiration glistened on Eupraxia’s brow; she dabbed at them with a lace handkerchief.

“Yes, but my Tasia was blameless in the affair. The young man’s behavior was unpardonable—”

“Thank you, Eupraxia. You may go.”

When the flustered Eupraxia had withdrawn, Eugene sat back, mesmerized by Gavril Nagarian’s portrait of his wife. Young though the painter was, he had managed to capture her elusive air of wistfulness. This was no mere formal likeness; it communicated something more profound, hinting at a greater intimacy than was normal between sitter and painter.

The girl in the portrait stared past Eugene, her dark eyes wistfully fixed on some distant, unattainable desire. Such freshness, such a sweet simplicity of nature shone through . . . and yet there was also an undeniable melancholy, doubly poignant in one so young.

She seemed so distant. He had put it down to a natural shyness at first and found it not unappealing. Now he sensed it had become a barrier to keep him at a distance. When he had consummated the marriage, he had tried to murmur words of tenderness to assure her of his good faith and appreciation. But she seemed not to hear, turning away from him and pretending to sleep.

Perhaps she harbored feelings for someone else.

Eugene frowned at the portrait. Even now he could not rid himself of Gavril Nagarian. His presence still lingered, tormenting him with doubts and unanswered questions.

The young man had shown great promise as a painter. Some said the line between artistic talent and madness was a slender one. But it was not the brief flowering of Gavril’s talent that concerned him now, it was the unspoken text behind the portrait. A text that spoke of a relationship between sitter and artist that transcended the bounds of propriety.

What’s this? Am I jealous of a wretched lunatic? I am ruler of five countries, Emperor of New Rossiya; I have no need to envy any man alive.

And yet, and yet . . .

Astasia has never once looked at me like that. Her eyes have never once gazed into mine with that soft, yearning sweetness. . . .

She doesn’t love me. I had hoped that she might grow to love me when she knew me better. . . .

There was a discreet tap at his study door and Gustave appeared with a dispatch on a silver tray.

“This has just arrived, imperial highness.”

Eugene broke the seal and swiftly scanned the contents of the neatly written report.

. . . to inform you that the patient has arrived at Arnskammar. His guards were obliged to administer heavy sedatives before transporting the patient as he was suddenly gripped by a fit of such extreme violence that it seemed almost as if he were wrestling with some invisible force.

Some invisible force . . . The dispatch dropped from Eugene’s hand. An uneasy feeling gripped him. Was it possible that Gavril had lied to him about the Drakhaoul?

He locked the doors of his study. Then he uncovered the glittering crystal voice-transference device, the Vox Aethyria that communicated directly with Magus Kaspar Linnaius far away in his laboratory at Swanholm.

“Is Gavril Nagarian still possessed by the Drakhaoul? Is it in any way possible?”

The device crackled into life and the Magus’s voice, calm and distant, replied.

“We are still ignorant of the true nature and provenance of this Drakhaoul-creature, highness. It is an aethyric being, incapable of existing long in this world without a corporeal host. But your daughter Karila appears to have communicated with the Drakhaoul the night it passed over Swanholm.”

“Karila?” echoed Eugene. Suddenly he felt chill sweat dampen his forehead and palms. His beloved little Karila, in contact with this dangerous spirit? “Why was I not told of this before?”

“She only confided in me a day or two ago when she returned to the palace. She came to beg me to take her as a pupil.”

“The child is seven years old!”

“Your daughter is gifted. Such unique gifts often reveal themselves at an early age. But I will do whatever your highness commands in this matter.”

Karila, gifted in the magic arts? This was not at all what Eugene had expected.

“The frustrations of her considerable physical handicaps may have significantly enhanced her mental powers. . . .”

“You’re saying she can communicate with these aethyric beings?”

“It appears so.”

For a moment the absurd idea entered Eugene’s mind that if he were to bring Karila to Gavril Nagarian, she could tell him if he were still possessed. . . .

And then the preposterousness of such a suggestion made him dismiss it. What kind of a father would take his little daughter to a mental asylum where the criminally insane were confined? The shock of the experience could damage her for life. No, there would have to be another way.

“Have you ever been to Arnskammar, Magus?”

Gavril listened to the wind buffeting the tower. Far below he could hear the smash of seawater against rocks. It was an oddly comforting sound, reminding him of those rare stormy days in Smarna when the cloud-churned sky would turn the blue waters of Vermeille Bay to choppy grey and wind would whip the tops of the darkening waves into a frenzy of white foam.

Vermeille . . . the Villa Andara, his childhood home. Would he ever see it again?

He rose from the bed and went toward the high, barred window, standing on tiptoe, straining to look out. All he could see was a grey, endless expanse of sea and cloudy sky.

His cell must be at the very top of the asylum tower. Another precaution to ensure escape was impossible. And now he would stay locked away here till the end of his days, never to see his mother again, never to stroke Kiukiu’s soft hair or gaze into her eyes . . .

From now on he was just a number.

Number Twenty-One.

CHAPTER
10

Astasia awoke with the first light of dawn. She was alone in the great velvet-swagged bed.

“Eugene?” she said sleepily. When there was no reply, she left the warmth of the bed and, wrapping a brocade gown around her, padded in bare feet to tap on Eugene’s dressing-room door. Still no reply.

The Emperor must have risen early again. He had no taste, it seemed, for lingering in bed, but preferred to keep to his strict military regime.

She opened the door to his dressing room and found herself staring into her own face.

The betrothal portrait.

When had Eugene ordered it to be moved here, to his dressing room? It had been on public display in the Hall of Black Marble, garlanded each day with fresh flowers. What did it mean? Did he wish to have it closer to him, in a more private place? Was it some sign of deeper affection? Or did he have it removed from public display for some less personal motive, such as the artist’s disgrace?

She looked at it again and felt a sharp pang of guilt. It was Nadezhda who had first told her the outcome of Gavril Nagarian’s trial and sentence. The next day the verdict was widely reported in the daily journals. The journalists had made much of the Emperor’s magnanimity in sparing the life of the lawless young warlord whose barbarous attack on the Imperial Palace of Swanholm had nearly killed little Princess Karila.

Gavril was beyond her help; he had committed a terrible crime and must pay the price. But there might be something she could do for Elysia. She still felt a warm affection for the portrait painter who had been as cruelly duped as she by Count Velemir’s political machinations. The very least she could do was to request a safe conduct home to Smarna for Elysia. An imperial pardon would be even better. Surely Eugene could not wish to avenge himself on her; her son was no longer a threat to him, locked away for life in his distant prison-asylum.

Another pang of guilt assailed her. She remembered a sunlit summer room, her hair stirred by a warm sea breeze. She remembered talking to a young man more easily, more frankly, than she had ever talked to anyone else. And she remembered his eyes, blue as the summer sea, smiling at her over the rim of the canvas as his brush dabbed skillfully at his palette. . . .

Forget him!
she told herself, pulling her robe more closely around her.
The Gavril Andar I knew is dead.

The Emperor and Empress sat together by the fire, sharing a rare moment of privacy after dinner. They lived their waking hours in public now—Eugene with his ministers and generals, Astasia attending function after function to represent her husband: opening a foundlings’ hospital; welcoming the wives of the Tielen dignitaries to Mirom; attending a subscription concert to raise money for the veterans of the recent hostilities. Astasia’s social diary was filled for the next twelve months.

Coffee had been served, strong and black as Eugene preferred, with a dash of spirits. Astasia had declined the coffee but nibbled one or two of the little almond biscuits as she sat beside her husband.
Husband
. How strange that word sounded, even now. She was joined by law to this tall, powerful man who was drinking his coffee like any other man, absentmindedly dipping an almond biscuit into the dark liquid and then quietly cursing as half fell into the cup, necessitating some hasty fishing with his silver spoon.

Even now Eugene was working; important papers had arrived tonight from one of his commanders in the field.

The fire crackled in the grate, the gilded clock (another Tielen import) ticked on the mantelpiece. Astasia picked up a third biscuit, then replaced it. Was this the moment to ask him about Elysia? The silence could almost be described as companionable—except that she was bored. Elsewhere in the palace, there was dancing tonight—a naval ball. She was still tempted to go back to join Varvara and her ladies in the ballroom, if it were not for the fact that her feet were red and sore. Her own fault. Why had she foolishly, vainly, insisted on wearing those new powder-blue shoes? The pointed toes were so pretty, but utterly unsuitable for walking the long corridors of the new convent school Eugene had set up for daughters of the army.

Yes, there was no doubt that Eugene was trying hard to win the citizens of Mirom with his new schools and hospitals. Something her poor, foolish Papa had neglected to consider. . . .

Eugene looked up from the dispatch he was reading. “Oh and Maltheus tells me the council has commissioned a wedding portrait of us both, to hang in the Great Chamber in Tielborg. You will need to warn your ladies-in-waiting to make your wedding gown ready for a sitting.”

“A wedding portrait?” This was her chance. Heart beating a little faster, she said, smiling, “I know of an excellent portraitist, Eugene.”

“Maltheus has already seen to it. He has brought in the services of Maistre Josse from Francia. He believes we have no portrait artists of suitable stature in Tielen.”

“In Tielen, maybe so. But in Smarna—”

He set the papers down and looked at her, frowning. “What are you suggesting, Astasia?”

What, not whom. She felt the smile begin to fray a little at the corners of her mouth, yet she was determined not to be put off. “Elysia Andar.”

His eyes looked on her coldly now, bleak as a wintry sea.

“She has lost her livelihood—and all because Count Velemir made her go to Tielen to deliver my portrait.” Astasia heard herself babbling and tried to slow down, to sound mature and reasonable. “Why should she be punished for her son’s crimes?”

“You must understand that it would be utterly inappropriate to employ Elysia Andar. So many of my people lost sons, husbands, and fathers in Azhkendir at her son’s hands.”

“She was a good companion to me, Eugene.” Astasia persevered even though she sensed he was becoming irritated. “Could you not at least let her go home? As a gesture of goodwill on our wedding?” She rose and gently laid one hand on his shoulder. “For my sake?”

He gazed up into her eyes. Still he did not smile back at her. “Does it mean so much to you?”

She nodded, feeling like a child again, cajoling Papa for some little treat she had been forbidden by Mama or Praxia.

“Then a passage will be granted.”

“Tonight? You will see to it tonight?”

“I will instruct Chancellor Maltheus tomorrow. It will be dispatched to Captain Lindgren straightaway.”

“That is more than generous!” Astasia, delighted at her triumph, kissed him. Eugene caught hold of her wrist and held her close, gently yet firmly, before she could pull away.

“You have a warm heart, Astasia,” he said, gazing intently into her eyes, “but take care. Now you are Empress, there are many who will seek to insinuate their way into your affections and take advantage of your kindness. Be careful, my dear.”

Her earlier elation drained away as she saw he was in deadly earnest.

“And never allow yourself to be alone with anyone, no matter how well you think you know them. There are some fanatical individuals who would not hesitate to harm you—or Karila—if they thought it would influence me.”

It was her first spontaneous display of affection, Eugene reflected as Astasia withdrew to prepare for bed. That soft press of Astasia’s lips to his was the first kiss that he had not had to initiate. The first time she had not closed her eyes as she leaned close to his burned, disfigured face. And all for Elysia Andar’s sake.

Astasia had left behind the book she was reading; he picked it up and saw it was a romantic novel, its prose trembling with high passion and peril. She was still a schoolgirl in so many ways, as charmingly wayward and naÏve as Karila. Was it possible that this perplexing, charming child-woman could grow to love him?

But did he dare to let himself grow fond of her? In allowing her a place in his heart, he would make himself vulnerable. An emperor could not afford such a weakness.

And yet, she had kissed him. She would be waiting for him now, in their blue velvet-hung bed.

The clock struck eleven. He took up the novel and had reached the door when there was a smart tap and Gustave appeared, bearing a folded paper on a silver tray.

“Well, what is it?” Eugene said a little curtly.

“A matter that requires your attention, imperial highness.”

Eugene stifled a sigh and opened the paper, hastily scanning the message, transcribed from a Vox Aethyria:

From Governor Armfeld, Old Citadel of Colchise, Smarna. Negotiations have broken down with the Smarnan council. They refuse to accept the terms of the annexation. They maintain that ownership of the Ruby of Smarna does not legally entitle his imperial highness to impose Tielen rule. They refuse to levy the taxes which are paid by all other citizens of the New Rossiyan Empire.

He lowered the paper, tempted to crush Armfeld’s message and hurl it into the fire. He had not anticipated trouble so soon—and in the smallest, least significant of the five countries.

“Will your highness send a reply?” Gustave hovered, ready to take dictation.

“I’ll speak to Armfeld myself.”

Eugene set out at a brisk stride, with Gustave hurrying along behind. It was not until he sat down at the Vox Aethyria that he realized he was still holding Astasia’s novel.

And what had he just promised Astasia, that he would send word to Azhkendir that Elysia Andar was free to return to Smarna? He closed his eyes and rested his head against his hand. He had allowed himself to be swayed by his feelings—and, as ever, it had proved to be imprudent. Now if he reneged on his promise, Astasia would believe that her wishes counted for nothing. He would attempt to explain that it was a matter of national security and she would shake her dark cloud of curls, pouting her pretty mouth . . .

Besides, what real harm could Elysia Andar do in Smarna? Her activities would be much easier to monitor in Vermeille than in remote Azhkendir. She might even prove to be useful. He would just have to take extra precautions.

He turned to Gustave. “Before I deal with Armfeld, get me our embassy in Francia.”

It was well past one in the morning by the time Eugene had dealt with the matters in hand to his satisfaction. As he rose from the desk, yawning and stretching, his hand knocked something to the floor. Bending down to pick it up, he saw it was Astasia’s novel. It had fallen open at the place she had marked and as his eyes strayed down the page, he read:

“My palace, my whole court will be yours,” cried the Tsar. “Oh, Elise, my dearest Elise, you will be avenged. Tears of blood will repay you for the tears you have shed. . . .”

He snapped the book shut, shaking his head. Such romantic nonsense. And yet powerful in the influence it must exert on its readers, even on Astasia. Had novels such as this colored her expectations of life? Did she secretly expect him to match up to the dashing, tortured heroes in her favorite fiction?

If so, I must be something of a disappointment.
He approached their apartments, nodding to the sentries on guard as they saluted him.

In their bedchamber, he saw her lying asleep, her dark hair unbound, like black silk on the pillow. Even now, to look at her sleeping, her dark lashes, her delicate pale complexion made him catch his breath.

“Astasia?” he said gently, bending down, his lips brushing her cheek. “You forgot your novel.”

She murmured something he could not quite catch and turned over, away from him, snuggling her face into the pillow.

He sighed and quietly began to undress, then slipped into bed beside her, making as little movement as possible so as not to disturb her.

It was the start of the Spring Festival in Tielen tonight. Eugene gazed at the sunlight sparkling on the distant Nieva. All week the young people would be dressing in white costumes to dance around bonfires and wander the streets until dawn, drinking and singing to welcome in the spring. Here across the water, in Muscobar, they did not burn spring bonfires or sing into the small hours. Instead, Astasia told him, they waited another whole six weeks till Kupala’s Eve. So to honor his homeland’s festival—and maybe to quench a pang of homesickness—he had ordered a grand formal dinner at the palace and a fireworks display on the Nieva to impress the citizens of Mirom.

“The visitor from Francia is here, highness,” Gustave announced. “I’ve shown him into your private study, as requested.”

Gustave had left the study door discreetly ajar so that Eugene could take a moment to observe the new arrival.

The young man seemed at ease, looking thoughtfully at an oil painting of sunset at sea, leaning forward from time to time as though to inspect a detail of brushwork or a signature, then stepping back to assess the effect again.

So this was Pavel Velemir, Feodor Velemir’s nephew. The likeness was striking.

“I’ve always been particularly fond of that seascape,” Eugene said quietly. “It was commissioned by my father.”

The young man started and then, effortlessly recovering his self-composure, placed both hands on his heart, bowing low in the Muscobar fashion. A lock of honey-gold hair flopped down over his eyes and he flicked it back with a careless toss of the head.