Prisoner of the Iron Tower (27 page)

“Sleep well, little one.” He gently stroked her golden hair. “I’ll keep watch over you now.”

The physician’s news was encouraging: Karila’s high fever had broken and she was sleeping peacefully. This had not prevented Eugene from going to check for himself before dealing with the affairs of the day. It was not that he did not trust Doctor Amandel, it was just that he needed the reassurance. Then he sat down at his desk to read his dispatches. The first was from Admiral Janssen.

The casualty list of those dead or missing in action at Vermeille Bay made depressing reading. Many were still unaccounted for. And as for Governor Armfeld . . .

“Let the Smarnans shoot him,” Eugene muttered. “He’s no use to New Rossiya now.”

They had lost the flagship
Rogned,
the pride of his fleet, and four men-o’-war. Two had gone down in flames in Vermeille Bay and two more had sunk as they attempted to flee the assault. The rest were limping back to the nearest Tielen dockyards at Haeven, many in need of weeks of repairs.

The loss of the
Rogned
grieved him the most. He had supervised the designs himself; he had visited the dry dock in Haeven frequently during her construction. The most advanced ship of her kind, she had proved as vulnerable as the rest to this vicious attack from the air.

And now with Janssen’s fleet out of commission, New Rossiya was unprotected on its southernmost shores.

He could not keep his eyes from straying to the map his cartographers had recently drawn of his new empire. Never before had it looked so clear: whoever held Smarna could control the Southern Ocean beyond Vermeille Bay, with its new trade routes—and protect the Straits from attack by sea. Smarna was still of vital importance. And Smarna still arrogantly proclaimed its independent status as a republic.

But he would win it back—by whatever means.

Kiukiu was hanging out washing behind Malusha’s cottage, the wooden pegs clamped between her teeth. Her fingertips were healing and she felt stronger today, heartened by the warmth of the bright spring sunshine. There were even flowers in Malusha’s kitchen garden as well as a dusting of pink and white blossoms on the apple trees.

Yesterday it had come again, that unsettling shimmer of daemon-blue, faint and very far away.

Malusha had felt it too.

“That cursed dragon-daemon is still at large,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s twice now we’ve both sensed it.”

Kiukiu nodded. Had the Drakhaoul taken possession of a new host? Was such a thing possible? And then a cold wind gusted across the moors, making the wet clothes flap violently, spattering her with drops of water. Her arms were suddenly pitted with goose bumps. She gazed up into the sky, rubbing her chilly arms, to see if a rainstorm was on its way.

A small cloud flitted across the blue sky.

“The Magus!” Had he come to redeem his promise? Was she to see Gavril at last, after all these interminable weeks of waiting? She ran around to the front of the cottage, almost tripping over the hens, and gazed eagerly about.

“Kiukirilya.” The voice came from behind her. She jumped. Kaspar Linnaius had appeared seemingly from nowhere.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that!” She put one hand to her breast to try to calm the wild thudding of her heart. Only then did she think it was maybe not so wise to speak disrespectfully to such a venerable Magus.

“Is your grandmother in?”

“Where else would she be?” she said. “She doesn’t leave the cottage these days.” She went to lead him inside—and felt Linnaius’s hand on her shoulder.

“I have news,” he said.

“Oh?” She swallowed hard. News never meant anything good these days. Had her request been turned down?

“The Emperor has graciously agreed to grant you permission to visit Gavril Nagarian.”

“Oh!” She let out a shriek of excitement. “Thank you, thank you, Magus!”

“You undertook a perilous journey to help his imperial highness. In recognition of that service, he has asked me to take you to Arnskammar.” There was even the slightest glint of a smile in the Magus’s pale eyes. “Just as soon as you have performed one more task.”

“Another task?” Kiukiu was unprepared for this new condition. “Right now? I—I haven’t finished hanging out the washing—” Her words died away under his stern gaze. “No. Of course the washing can wait. I’ll just tell Grandma—”

“Tell me what, precisely?” Malusha appeared, arms tightly folded.

“I have the Emperor’s permission to take your granddaughter to visit Gavril Nagarian.”

“That’s as may be, but you haven’t got mine.”

“Oh, Grandma, please—” burst out Kiukiu.

“And,” said the Magus evenly, “I also have been granted permission to take you to young Stavyomir Arkhel in Azhgorod.”

“I can take myself, thank you very much, I’m not so decrepit I can’t drive my own pony cart over the moors.”

Why must her grandmother always be so stubborn? Kiukiu gazed at her in frustration, wondering what would possibly make her change her mind.

“Then it would be a wasted journey,” said the Magus, “for no one is granted admission to the household without a special permit from the Emperor.”

“Please, Grandma,” pleaded Kiukiu. “You know how much this means to me. Let me go to Arnskammar—and then you can visit the baby.”

Marsh ducks flapped overhead in a ragged “V,” quacking rowdily.

“It would be about the right time to sing the Naming Song.” Malusha seemed to be talking to herself, staring toward the hazy ridge of the Kharzhgyll mountains. “And if he’s nearing six months in age . . .” Her gaze hardened, fixing on the Magus with stern intensity. “You can take her to Arnskammar, foolish girl that she is, but no good’s going to come of it. You’ll only upset yourself again, Kiukiu.”

“I know,” Kiukiu said defensively. Why did Grandma always have to spoil things?

“And you,” Malusha stepped down and came close to the Magus, jabbing one finger at him, “you take good care of my granddaughter. If anything happens to her, I’ll summon something up from the Ways Beyond that’s beyond your worst nightmares.”

“Grandma, please,” murmured Kiukiu, horribly embarrassed. If Malusha kept on baiting the Magus in this childish way, she was certain he would just shrug his shoulders and leave.

“Go get your cloak, Kiukiu. It’s cold in that sky craft of his.”

Kiukiu sped indoors. Her cloak was made of pieces of worn blanket that she had stitched together. It was far from elegant, but it would keep her warm.

She heard a shiver of wings and Lady Iceflower alighted on the back of Malusha’s chair, staring at her with suspicious golden eyes.

“You can’t come with me, Lady Iceflower,” Kiukiu said. “You have to go greet the new Arkhel lord. But watch out for his mother, Lady Lilias.” She raised her voice so that it carried outside. “She’s a nasty piece of work.”

The owl let out a small, curious hoot and swiveled her head right around, watching Kiukiu intently as she put on her well-darned mittens.

“I’m ready.” She picked up her gusly and went toward the door. Her stomach twisted with sudden apprehension. She was going to visit Gavril—and she must steel herself to see the changes that prison had wrought in him.

“Wish me luck, my lady. I’m going to need it.”

CHAPTER
22

Gavril clawed his way out of the sea and crawled slowly up the sandy beach.

Each waterlogged breath was an effort. Water bubbled in his throat, streamed from his nose and mouth. His lungs were filled with it. He coughed and retched until his rib cage ached.

Some salty seawater came up, frothing onto the sand—and with it a foul black slime that seared his gullet. The taste, bitter as caulking tar, tainted his mouth and breath.

He stared down at what he had vomited up: a black oily puddle polluting the silver sand.

So it begins again.

He tried to raise himself but his head pounded with the sounds of the shore, the rush and fall of the waves against the sand, even the distant mew of gulls wheeling high overhead.

Must find shelter. Can’t stay here . . .

He let himself drop back down onto the sand. The soft silvered grains grated against his cheek. He had no strength left. All that remained within him was this sensation, as if his innards had been scoured with burning coals.

“Water,” he whispered. His lids drooped, seared by the brightness of the sun, and a burnished darkness that stank of flame and smoke enveloped him.

RaÏsa Korneli reined her mare Luciole to a halt on the sands and shaded her eyes against the wine-gold dazzle of the setting sun. Lukan had given the order to separate so they could search the little coves and beaches that lay beyond the headland for Tielens, and she would do anything for Lukan.

They had rounded up a few stragglers in Vermeille—terrified survivors who had witnessed the annihilation of their fellow soldiers and had willingly surrendered. But there were more, she knew it—desperate men who must have watched their fleet abandon the attack and sail away, leaving them to fend for themselves.

She jumped down from Luciole’s back and tied the reins to the branches of a stunted sea pine. Taking her pistol, she primed it and set off down the sandy track that wound down toward the beach.

The sky was still a brilliant blue, but the sea beneath was darkening as the sun sank, touching the farthest waters with gold. And the evenstar had already appeared, low in the western sky.

Such a day. At dawn they had woken to the crash of Tielen shells and grenades against the citadel walls. Death had seemed inevitable. She had seized the Smarnan standard from the hands of a dying student and had clambered up on the broken battlements to swing its tattered, bloodstained shreds defiantly at the Tielen soldiers massing the beaches. She had felt shrapnel and shards of splintered stone whistle past her head, powdering her hair with dust. Exhilarated, angry beyond reason, she had screamed her defiance at the Tielens.

And as she stood wielding the great standard, she had witnessed the unimaginable. The destruction of the Tielen armies on the sands far below.

A cool breath of wind, salt-tinged, stirred her hair. It felt good. Good to be alive. Good to smell and taste the freshness of the sea-stung air. The colors of the twilight seemed so much more intense because she had come so close to losing it all.

Bees were still busy in the dunes, droning around the honey-scented spikes of sea holly.

“Take care, RaÏsa,” Lukan had said, letting his hand rest on her shoulder. “These Tielens are dangerous.” His dark eyes gazed into hers. “Call for help if you find any survivors.” She hardly heard what he was saying. “Don’t tackle them on your own.”

Her imagination began to weave scenes of high drama in which she flung herself in front of him to save him from a Tielen bayonet, falling to lie dying in his arms, his warm tears dripping on her face as he whispered, “I always loved you, RaÏsa, and now it is too late. . . .”

She moved swiftly on, scanning the empty sands. Seagulls strutted and preened near the tide’s edge, digging with their sharp beaks in the wet sand for worms. She wanted to capture a Tielen for Lukan. What better proof of her loyalty to the cause—or her loyalty to him?

She knew these little coves and beaches from childhood. She knew every hiding place in the cliffs, every bramble-choked cranny from the games she had played with her brothers. (“Tomboy RaÏsa,” they had teased her, “you should have been born a boy!” And she had tossed her unruly hair and answered: as if she cared!)

And then she saw him. Not hiding behind a rock. Lying sprawled, as if drowned and washed up by the merciless tide like driftwood. It could be a trap. She crept closer, clutching the pistol tight.

No trap. This one looked way beyond help.

Cautiously she prodded him with the muzzle of the pistol.

“Hey! Wake up!”

There was no response, not even an involuntary twitch of muscle. She dropped to her knees beside him in the sand.

His waterlogged clothes were shredded to tatters. She could see terrible scars on his head, but they were not fresh wounds. And even though his clothes were stained by seawater, she could see no signs of Tielen colors. A sailor, maybe, young and good-looking . . . A deep sigh swelled in her breast. He was about the same age as her brother Iovan. Too young to drown.

She reached out her left hand, still holding the pistol in her right, and felt for a pulse at the side of his throat.

She detected a faint throb of life beneath her fingers.

Her drowned sailor gave a groan. She snatched her hand away as if scalded, sitting back on her heels and leveling the pistol at his head.

“I’ve got you covered, Tielen!”

He gave a sputtering cough and convulsed, spewing up a mess of seawater and slime onto the sand. She drew back, disgusted.

“Don’t try any tricks.” She held the pistol in both hands to keep it steady. Why were her hands trembling? She had faced the enemy on the broken battlements of the citadel. She had seen the naked aggression in the Tielens’ eyes as they charged toward the barricades. This was just one man.

“Don’t—shoot.” The words came out on a rasping breath as he slumped back onto the sand, eyes shut. “Not—Tielen. From Smarna.”

“Smarna?” she echoed, voice taut with suspicion. “Prove it.”

His mouth twisted into the semblance of a wry smile. “Proof? My word. That’s all—the sea has left me.”

“So where do you come from? Identify yourself.”

“Vermeille. I came home when I heard of the revolt.” He spoke in fluent Smarnan, without a trace of a Tielen accent. And then the water bubbled in his throat again and he rolled over, retching exhaustedly.

RaÏsa watched, still wary. He seemed in no fit state to attack her, but it could be a ruse to lure her into a sense of false security.

“Water . . .” The word was faint, as dry as if all moisture had been seared out of his body.

She hesitated, then backed away toward Luciole, who was standing patiently by the pine tree. A quick rummage through her saddlebag and she found her leather water bottle, half-full. She went back to the sailor. He lay still now. Kneeling beside him, she tugged the stopper from the water bottle with her teeth.

“No tricks,” she said. “There’s water here. Drink.” She raised his scarred head, propping him against her knee. Awkwardly, she poured some of the tepid water into his mouth. Some slopped out down his chin, dripping onto her riding breeches. The water had been sharpened with a measure of Smarnan eau-de-vie to disguise the taste of old leather, a huntsman’s trick her brothers had taught her.

The sailor’s eyes suddenly opened again and he gazed directly up at her. She blinked, astonished to see how brilliantly, radiantly blue they were.

Trick of the twilight, she told herself, trying to quell the sudden feeling of unease that shivered through her.

“You’re a—woman.”

She clapped a hand to her shirt. Had it gaped open, revealing her secret? She had bound her breasts tight and cut her auburn hair short to fight beside her brothers on the barricades. How had he known?

“You saved me. What is your name?”

“RaÏsa.” What was she doing, telling him her name? Yet there was something about him that compelled her to answer.

“RaÏsa?” His voice was still hardly more than a dry whisper. He raised one hand to touch her cheek and she felt a shiver of heat run through her.

“RaÏsa!” Someone shouted her name, shattering the strange intensity of the moment. She looked up guiltily and saw horsemen with flaming torches riding onto the beach, her brother Iovan at their head.

“Here, Iovan!” she called back, waving.

They urged their horses across the sands until they formed a semicircle around RaÏsa and the sailor.

“What’s this the tide’s washed up?” Iovan dismounted, pistol in hand. “More wreckage from the Tielen fleet?” He slowly lowered the pistol until it was pointing directly between the sailor’s eyes.

“No!” she cried, leaping up. “He’s Smarnan!”

“Is that what he told you?” A grim smile twisted Iovan’s broad mouth. She heard the click as he primed the pistol.

“Iovan!” She grabbed hold of his arm. There was a flash and a deafening crack as the shot went wide, skimming low over the shore toward the sea. The horses started, rearing in panic. One of Iovan’s men swore.

“For God’s sake, RaÏsa.” Iovan shook her off with a violence that threw her tumbling onto the sand. “I could’ve killed you!”

“Since when do we shoot strangers on sight?” She struggled back to her feet. “What’s got into you, Iovan? At least give the man a chance to speak for himself. Look at him. He’s no threat. He’s half-drowned!”

He gripped hold of her by one shoulder, fingers gnawing into her flesh. “We’re at war, little sister, or had you forgotten?” In the torchlight she saw the desperation and exhaustion in his eyes.

“How could I forget?” She forced the anger from her voice. And then she asked the question she had ridden out from Vermeille to escape. “Miran? Is he—”

“Still holding on by a thread. So the doctors say . . .” He let go of her.

It was the shooting of Miran, the youngest of the three Korneli children, that had triggered the revolt in the citadel. Miran, her favorite brother—bookish and gentle, more interested in philosophy and poetry than in warfare—had been the first casualty of the siege.

“Iovan!” shouted one of the men. “Do we continue the search?”

Iovan passed one hand over his dirt-smeared face as if trying to collect his thoughts.

“No. It’s too dark now. Let’s take the prisoner back to the citadel. We’ll interrogate him there.”

“Water . . .” Gavril heard a voice pleading from the sulphurous clouds of his fevered dreams. After a while he came to realize that the croaking words were issuing from his own throat. He opened eyelids as stiff as old parchment and gazed blearily about him.

It must be near dawn, he reckoned, as a pale shaft of jagged light fell on him through a broken-paned window.

“Water . . .” His lips could barely frame the word. His tongue, leather-dry, clacked against his palate. His mouth seemed filled with cinders. It was as if all the moisture in his body had been seared away, leaving him a desiccated shell.

He had forgotten the terrible toll the attack would take on his body. Now he knew again the reality of the thirst that could never be quenched by water alone.

All around him lay sprawled figures. Sleeping, he hoped, not dead. One man near him gave a grunting snore and turned over on his side. Weapons lay piled in corners. The smell of sweaty feet and unwashed bodies hung stale in the air. This chamber was being used as an improvised barracks. And then he saw it. An earthernware water pitcher. So close, all he had to do was reach out—

Metal bracelets bit into his wrists, arresting his efforts with a jerk. He was shackled, hand and foot. He could not even crawl toward the prize he craved.

“Water . . .” He tried again. Even to enunciate that single word cost him enormous effort. If he didn’t get water soon, he would die.

A door clanged open.

“Dawn muster! Wake up!” a voice bellowed. “On your feet!”

The sprawled figures slowly began to move. Groaning and yawning, men stretched stiff limbs, scratched themselves, sat up.

“Out in the courtyard! Quick!”

They shuffled around Gavril, clumsy with sleep. No one seemed to care he was there.

“Another suspect! Chain him up!”

Gavril recognized the snarling voice of Iovan, the rebel who had tried to shoot him the night before.

A man was flung onto the floor close by; two of the militia grabbed him by his arms and clamped shackles onto his wrists and ankles.

“Claims he’s from Muscobar. Claims he’s come to join the rebellion.” Iovan aimed a vicious kick at the man’s back; the prisoner jerked but did not cry out.

These are my countrymen . . . and they are behaving no better than the Tielen invaders. What’s happened to us?
Gavril closed his eyes, sickened at what he had seen, sickened by his own weakness.

“Stop, Iovan! That’s enough.”

It was the girl, RaÏsa, who had found him last night on the beach. She would help him. If only he could muster the strength to call to her.

“RaÏsa. Water . . .”

The next moment, someone thrust a tin cup of water into his hands.

“Here.”