Prisoner of the Iron Tower (16 page)

“A Spirit Singer,” Linnaius murmured.

Kaspar Linnaius scudded on in his sky craft above the moorlands of Azhkendir. Where there had been nothing but the bleak whiteness of snow, he now saw a vivid blur of different greens; reeds and rushes hemmed the boggy pools, and great banks of gorse were about to burst into fountains of yellow blooms.

All the moor beneath him was fresh green until he spotted the dark scar of the burned escarpment, the charred bank of earth where hundreds of Tielen soldiers had perished, incinerated by Drakhaon’s Fire. Even if he had not known that this was the place of such terrible carnage, he would have sensed the grim aura emanating from it, the lingering taint of daemonic breath. Nothing would grow there for years.

Circling lower, he identified the pale blue and grey of the many New Rossiyan flags fluttering from the towers of Kastel Drakhaon and caught the sound of picks and shovels.

“Ahh,” muttered Linnaius. “Lindgren’s mine.”

Captain Nils Lindgren had written to the Emperor, sending samples of minerals and salts he had discovered while exploring the Drakhaon’s confiscated estates. The Emperor had passed the samples to his Royal Artificier for analysis, and Linnaius had been pleased to report the results of his findings: Azhkendir was rich in untapped mineral resources. The Emperor had then given the order to open up mines to exploit this new discovery to the fullest.

Far below, men were excavating, digging a tunnel deep into the hillside. A cart appeared, laden with stones and earth. Workers heaved on ropes, putting all their strength to shifting the cart. Even from this height he could see that their ankles and wrists were shackled together. Armed Tielen soldiers stood around, directing the work. These prisoners, he guessed, must be the surviving members of Gavril Nagarian’s bodyguard, the barbarous
druzhina,
condemned to hard labor for their part in the recent troubles.

The wind carrying his craft whined and squalled above the earthworks. One of the
druzhina
glanced up, eyes squinting against the light. All he would have glimpsed was a cloud, scudding low across the sky. But Linnaius, reluctant to risk being seen, began a slow descent at the edge of the forest, beyond the mine-workings.

He concealed the craft in a shroud of shadowsilk, making sure it blended into the background of rough bark and damp moss. Then he followed a winding path down toward the kastel. It was not long before he was challenged by Tielen sentries. Lindgren had the grounds well-guarded, Linnaius reflected, as one of the soldiers led him to find the captain.

Nils Lindgren was in the Great Hall with one of his subordinates, correcting plans with rule and pencils. “Magus,” he said, straightening up as Linnaius appeared, “you honor us.” He laid down his tools and, clicking his heels together, saluted smartly. “Have you come to check on our progress?” He gestured to the plans laid out on the table. “As you can see, my engineers have been busy. This first seam is already yielding good results. We’re going to blast a second tunnel later this week. I could give you a tour later, when you’ve rested from your journey. And I think you might be intrigued by these samples I’ve taken from the escarpment. They’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.” He held out a small stoppered phial containing a dark, crumbling substance that emitted a faint phosphorescent glow.

“Thank you,” said Linnaius, giving the phial a cursory glance before slipping it into the pocket of his jacket. “I’ll submit the contents to a full alchymical analysis.” The young man’s eagerness to develop the mining project showed in his eyes and the healthy, wind-burned glow of his complexion. And these resources could certainly be used to increase the new empire’s military resources. “But that is not the prime reason for my visit. I’ve come to ask you if there is a certain young Azhkendi woman working in the kastel. She goes by the name of Kiukiu.”

He saw a look of puzzlement cross Lindgren’s face; the young captain had evidently not yet learned to conceal his feelings very successfully.

“I would like to speak with this young woman alone, you understand?”

Lindgren found his tongue. “But she’s a scullery maid, just a peasant girl—”

“She is the one,” Linnaius insisted calmly. “Bring her to me.”

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?”