Prisoner of the Iron Tower (3 page)

“Forgive me, highness.” Gustave was breathless, as if he had been running.

“Well, where is he?” Eugene demanded.

“It seems that Ambassador Garsevani has been recalled to Smarna.”

“Recalled?” said Maltheus, one bristling eyebrow quirked.

Eugene said nothing. There could, of course, be a pressing personal reason for Garsevani’s sudden departure.

“It would have been courteous to send word,” said Golitsyn, “but then, the Smarnans . . .”

Maltheus pounced on this seemingly innocuous aside. “What gives the Smarnans the right to behave so discourteously to his imperial highness?”

Count Golitsyn turned slowly to him with a knowing smile and a shrug. “I’ve a little villa down there, on the coast. Always take my own staff with me; the locals are bone-lazy. Too hot, you see; they spend most of their time idling in the shade, drinking and arguing.”

“So are no Smarnan dignitaries to attend the ceremony?” said Eugene, unwilling to let the matter rest.

Golitsyn clicked his fingers and his secretary handed him the ledger containing the list of guests. The count ran his finger down page after page, concluding his search with a little shrug.

“Not one?” Eugene insisted. “Not even one of the ministers?”

“Well, there is the Countess Tamara, but she is a Muscobite by birth.”

Eugene glanced at Maltheus, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. This sudden disappearance of Ambassador Garsevani could be interpreted as a snub. He hoped it was not an ill omen. He turned to the Patriarch, forcing the matter from his mind.

“And now, your holiness, to the seating plan in the cathedral . . .”

“You delivered my gift to the altessa?” Eugene emerged from the meeting well over an hour later than he had planned.

“Just as you instructed, highness,” said Gustave. “And I sent your apologies with it.”

“My apologies?” And then Eugene remembered. “Tea.” He struck his forehead with his hand in frustration. “Tea with the Grand Duchess. And if Garsevani hadn’t played us all for fools—” He started out down the corridor with Gustave following after.

“And now the altessa is at a fitting for her wedding dress,” panted Gustave.

Eugene stopped. “So when will she be free?”

“Not until you’ve left for the dinner at the Admiralty, highness.”

And so another day would have passed without spending any time with her.

“What did she say to the gift?”

“She said it was very pretty.” Gustave’s tone was guarded.

“But did she try it on?”

“Not in my presence.”

“Ah.” Eugene turned and began to walk slowly back toward his apartments. Perhaps Astasia was not impressed or excited by jewels. He wanted to send something to apologize for his lack of attention. Something more personal than jewels.

“Violets,” he said. “To match her eyes. Gustave, can you find a little bunch of violets, no matter what the cost, and deliver them to the altessa? I’ll write a card to accompany them.”

“Violets in winter?” The secretary shook his head in bewilderment.

“I place great faith in your ingenuity, Gustave,” Eugene said with a smile.

“He may be a Tielen, but he has exquisite taste, Astasia.” The Grand Duchess exclaimed in delight over the betrothal gifts that had been accumulating on Astasia’s dressing table. Eugene had sent a new treasure every day: a diamond-and-sapphire necklace yesterday with matching drop earrings; today a string of amethysts fashioned like violets. Earlier presents included black pearls, a gold-and-amber jewelry casket, and crystal bottles of attar from rare black desert roses. “You’re such a lucky girl.”

“Yes, Mama,” said Astasia listlessly. The gifts were expensive, true, and each piece of jewelry beautifully crafted. Yet her mother was far more excited about them than she; she found it difficult to show much enthusiasm about cold stones, even if they were worth a small fortune. Yet, if nothing else, they had brought a flush to her mother’s wan cheeks and a brief sparkle to her eyes. Sofia still woke at night, breathless and terrified, shrieking for the guard to come to her rescue. And though Astasia had found her mother’s moods overbearing at times in the past, she was secretly relieved to see glimpses of the haughty Grand Duchess returning again.

But these gifts . . . she picked up one after another and then set them down again on the marble-inlaid table. They told her nothing of the man she was to marry except that he was very wealthy. He had probably not even chosen the gifts himself, but ordered one of his imperial staff to select them.

How little I really know about you, Eugene.

“Tasia, if there’s anything you need to ask me about your wedding night, now’s the time, while we’re alone,” said Sofia suddenly.

Astasia felt her face flame with embarrassment.

“Really, Mama, I—”

“He’s fathered a child, so I don’t think you need have any worries in that area, although there were some whispers—slander, I’m sure—when he adopted that Arkhel boy from Azhkendir . . .”

Worse and worse! Astasia closed her eyes, praying that Mama would not rattle on like this in front of some Tielen dignitary at the wedding.

“My little girl’s going to be a woman, a married woman.” Sofia embraced Astasia, hugging her close as tears coursed down her cheeks. Astasia hugged her back, desperately trying to think of an excuse to get away before Sofia embarrassed her further with more talk of the wedding night.

There came a little tap at the salon door and Nadezhda popped her head around.

“A gift from his imperial highness,” she announced.

“Ooh!” cried Sofia excitedly, clasping her hands together. “What will it be, Tasia? A little amethyst tiara would go well with the necklace. . . .”

Nadezhda came in and, demurely bobbing a curtsy, presented Astasia with a delicate lace-bound posy of violets and snowdrops.

“Oh,” said Astasia, surprised. “Flowers.
Real
flowers.” The little posy appealed to her so much that she pinned it to the shoulder of her dress.

It was the first gift he had sent her that touched her heart. Violets in winter.

CHAPTER
3

It was the last of the five rubies, crimson as Smarnan wine, cunningly fashioned by ancient craftsmen in the form of a teardrop.

The fifth tear of long-dead Emperor Artamon was about to be reunited with its fellows for the first time in centuries. And for the first time in centuries, one man had dared to fulfill his dreams of an empire. Eugene of Tielen had battled to reunite the five princedoms of Artamon’s shattered empire—and had won.

The coronation was tomorrow. The Emperor had attended his final fitting some days before. Adjustments had been made. The imperial crown must be finished before dawn—and to that end, the best jewelers in Tielen had been shipped across the Straits to Mirom and installed under armed guard in the East Wing of the Winter Palace.

Paer Paersson, the master jeweler, worked late into the night with his craftsmen to complete the setting for the Orlov ruby: a golden sea eagle, wings outspread, claws open to clutch the stone to its breast.

All the jewelers and their apprentices stood waiting to witness the final moment in the creation of their new Emperor’s crown. They had labored for months, fashioning the settings from the most precious of materials: gold, pearls, and exquisitely cut tiny diamonds.

Paer Paersson carefully lifted the ruby from its box and, with skilled fingers, placed it in its setting. The others fell silent, watching respectfully. Only the ticking of the ornate clock on the mantel could be heard.

With a final twist, the master jeweler gently fixed the stone in position. He placed the crown onto a cushion of rich purple velvet and set it on the table in front of him.

“At last,” he said, letting out a long sigh. “Send word to his imperial highness. Tell him it is ready.”

The youngest apprentice sped away across the courtyard toward the imperial apartments.

In the candlelight, the rich rubies glowed red. The craftsmen of the Jewelers’ Guild stood admiring their masterpiece in reverent silence.

The rubies glowed more intensely. Paer Paersson took off his spectacles and rubbed his tired eyes. Even without his spectacles he could see that the glow from the gems was growing brighter. And he could sense a sound so low it was almost a vibration—as if a heavy carriage were passing across the courtyard.

“Master Paersson,” whispered one of the other craftsmen. “What’s happening?”

The vibration had become a low buzz. The louder it grew, the more the brightness of the rubies increased. Five lights, like bloodstained flames, burned at the heart of each teardrop stone.

“Have you ever seen the like?” Paer Paersson leaned closer. The buzzing grew louder, the flames burned more brightly.

“Move away, Master Paersson.” The jewelers began to back toward the door, bumping into one another in their confusion. “For God’s sake, move away!” But Paer could not move; fear and wonder held him bound to the spot.

The room glowed like a furnace—and the heart of the furnace was the imperial crown.

Eugene of Tielen hurried across the courtyard toward the jewelers’ workshop. He was so eager to see Artamon’s rubies in the finished crown that he had not waited for Paer Paersson to bring it to him, but had come himself.

Now he halted, seeing a red glow illuminating the windows of the workroom. Was the room ablaze? He could not discern any trace of smoke.

Puzzled, he pushed open the door. The youngest apprentice, following close on his heels, let out a yelp of terror.

Each of the five rubies in the imperial crown burned in its filigree settings. And a deep buzzing filled the room, notes of five low pitches twining about one another like the droning of a hive of bees.

“Stay back, highness,” Paer Paersson warned.

“But this is quite extraordinary. Artamon’s rubies . . .
alive
.” Eugene moved forward, ignoring Paer Paersson’s warning. “One of you go and fetch the Magus.” He had to raise his voice to make himself heard as the hum of the stones grew steadily louder.

Suddenly five jets of crimson light shot out, one from each ruby, arcing upward toward the ceiling.

Eugene sprang back, shading his eyes. The craftsmen cowered away, hiding their faces. The apprentices whimpered with fear.

The five shafts of ruby-fire meshed together, fusing into a single column of light.

It pierced the ceiling of the craftsmen’s workroom like a spear.

Eugene ran out into the courtyard, gazing up into the black of the night sky. The rubies’ spearshaft of light went shooting upward into the starry heavens like a blood-streaked comet, illuminating the pale stones and columns of the Winter Palace in its glow. For a moment the stars themselves were stained red, as though with blood.

Servants and troopers of the Household Cavalry slowly gathered in the courtyard in awestruck silence.

And then—as suddenly as it had begun—the light died. The night air was chill, clear, and silent—except for the hushed murmurings of Eugene’s astonished household.

Eugene stood staring up at the empty sky. The stars glittered again, cold and white-blue as the tiny diamonds Paer Paersson had cut for his crown.

A man appeared silently beside him in the darkness. And even in the uncertain starlight the prince sensed that it was Kaspar Linnaius, Magus and Royal Artificier. Eugene beckoned him to a secluded corner where they could not be overheard.

“Well, Magus?” he said quietly. “What does it mean?”

“In all truth, highness,” came back the Magus’s voice, calm and distant, “I do not know. I have never seen its like before. Perhaps we may take it as a good omen? A blessing from Artamon, bestowed on the first man great enough to restore his broken empire?”

“Oh come now, Linnaius, you know I am not in the least superstitious. You may circulate this pretty myth, if you wish, to reassure my people . . . but I need answers. Scientific answers.” He approached the master jeweler. “Paer, is this the first time you have witnessed this phenomenon?”

Paer Paersson nodded his head, evidently still too shaken to speak.

“And perhaps the last,” Eugene said pensively. “Linnaius, speak to our archivists in the morning. Send scholars out to all five princedoms. I want to know if such a thing ever happened in Artamon’s reign. I want to know the history of the rubies. I want this thoroughly researched.”

The alarm bell of Kastel Drakhaon clanged out a frantic warning, shattering the night.

Gavril Nagarian clambered up the broken tower stairs, one precarious step at a time. Bogatyr Askold followed close behind.

The Kalika Tower had taken its share of the bombardment during the siege. Ragged holes gaped in the walls, letting in the cold night air. Yet still it stood, Volkh’s tower, where other sturdier watchtowers had fallen in the attack.

Gavril reached the top and pushed open the door that led out onto the roof.

“What new mischief can it be this time?” grumbled Askold as they scanned the darkened horizon.

Below, servants and
druzhina
came hurrying out into the courtyard, pointing to the heavens.

A distant column of fiery light, thin as a scarlet thread, pierced the dark skies to the east. The crystalline brilliance of the constellations overhead flushed red as blood.

In that moment, it felt as if the fiery bolt of light speared Gavril’s brain and a current of energy shivered through his mind. He strove to speak, but his tongue was frozen.

“What d’you mean, dragging us all from our warm beds for this, Semyon?” Sosia, the kastel housekeeper, chided. “It’s just the northern lights, you silly boy!”

“I’ve never seen ’em burn bloodred before,” muttered Askold at Gavril’s side.

And just as suddenly as the column of light had appeared, it vanished, leaving the stars sparkling diamond-clear above their heads.

“What d’you think it was, Drakhaon?” said Askold. “Some new Tielen weapon?”

“I don’t know.” Gavril found he had regained the power of speech. His head cleared. “But whatever it was, we should stay on our guard. Eugene of Tielen won’t forgive us so easily for defeating him.”

Kiukiu was helping Lady Elysia sort through a pile of sheets and blankets that had been dug out from the rubble when the alarm bell began to clang—a harsh, terrifying sound in the cold of the night.

“Now whatever can the matter be?” Lady Elysia let drop the blanket she was mending and went to the window, raising the oiled cloth that had been nailed across the frame to keep out the worst of the drafts.

Kiukiu heard running feet,
druzhina
and servants calling out to one another. She could not move.
Please let it not be the Tielens,
she prayed silently.

“What
is
that light?” said Lady Elysia, peering out, her voice hushed with wonder.

Kiukiu went to get up and join her at the window—and her mind was suddenly filled with voices, children’s voices, all screaming out in terror. “Oh,” she whispered. “Who
are
you?”

She stands gazing out at a great expanse of moving water, bluer than Lake Ilmin. Children surround her, pulling at her hands, her clothes, their eyes wide with fear and despair.

“Help us, Spirit Singer. Set us free.”

“I—I can’t. There are so many of you . . . and I don’t even know your names.”

As she gazes at their pale, dead faces she sees that each child bears a red, ragged knife-wound across the throat. Horror numbs her. Who could have done such a terrible thing to these innocent children?

And then she senses she is being watched. Turning slowly, she sees a tall figure behind her, clothed in glittering darkness. It is watching her with two luminous eyes as slanted and strange as the Drakhaoul’s—and a third eye, crimson as a bloodstained flame, burns on its forehead. And such a feeling of dread overcomes her that she cannot back away, even though every instinct tells her she must flee.

The children cry out again, clustering around her, clinging to her in fear.

“Please help us.”

“Kiukiu.” Someone was calling her name. The blue water faded from her sight, the children’s piteous pleading grew fainter until she blinked and found herself gazing into Lady Elysia’s anxious face.

“Are you all right, Kiukiu?”

Kiukiu nodded. She felt a little sick and disoriented. “What happened?”

“You fainted. Sit up slowly. That’s right. Luckily the blankets cushioned your fall.”

“I’m sorry.” What must Lady Elysia think of her? “Sometimes I . . .”

Elysia nodded. “Gavril has told me of your gift. What did you see? Does it help to talk about it?”

Kiukiu hugged her arms about her body; she felt cold now, chilled to the bones. “Sometimes I hear echoes from long ago in the kastel. The stones remember . . .”

On a dark, lonely shore far from Mirom, Andrei lay asleep on a straw pallet in the fisherman’s cottage.

A sudden spearshaft of light pierced his dreams, coloring them red as spilled blood.

He gave a cry and sat bolt upright.

It must be a flare, sent up by a ship in distress.

“Ship on the rocks!” Still half-asleep, he fumbled his way to the doorway and stared out into the night, scanning the empty sea.

A flaming column stretched from earth into the heavens on the distant horizon, staining the black sea red. A rushing sound suddenly filled his ears, as if a crowd of midges were swarming in his brain. Little flashes of fiery light flickered across his vision. His head spun.

“That’s no distress flare.” Kuzko, his voice thick with sleep, appeared behind him.

Andrei struggled to reply. Words tried to force themselves from his mouth, but when they came out, they seemed meaningless.

“Nagar’s—Eye,” he heard himself stammer. “Take—me—
home
.”

“Yes, lad.” Kuzko’s hand came down on his shoulder. “And if only you could remember where home was, we’d get you back to your folks on the next spring tide.”

And then the fiery column disappeared, as swiftly as if it were a snuffed-out candleflame.

Andrei blinked, rubbed his eyes. He turned to Kuzko.

“What did I say?”

“Take me home,” repeated Kuzko.

“Before that.”

“A place name, maybe. Not one I recognized. Nagar’s Eye. Is that where you hail from, Andrei?”

Andrei shook his head. The name meant nothing to him. And the disappointment now seemed almost too great to bear. For a moment it seemed as if his memory had been unlocked. But whatever had been awakened by the fiery column had been just as swiftly extinguished.

Kuzko uncorked a stone bottle of spirits; he swallowed a swift mouthful, then passed it to Andrei.

“I’ve little enough left, but you look as if you could do with it, lad. Take a good swig. It’ll help you sleep.”

Astasia fretted on the foggy quayside, shivering in her warmest fur-lined cloak. She was waiting to welcome Karila and her entourage to Mirom.

Their arrival had been delayed because of the little princess’s sudden indisposition. Her Great-Aunt Greta, the Dowager Duchess of Haeven, had sent a message to say that she had delayed the voyage of the royal barque because Karila had developed a nasty cough on the journey down from the Palace of Swanholm. And then they had encountered sea fog in the Straits.